Purity (The Marked Ones, 1 of 4)
by Fractal Alexander
Summary: My name is Elia Shacklebolt. I am a sixth-year Ravenclaw. I am the daughter of Kingsley Shacklebolt, an Auror, and his deceased wife Eliana. This is who I am, who I always have been. At least, that's what they tell me. That's what I tell myself. But I've begun to realize it isn't true. Who am I, really? What have they been hiding from me? Does the woman in my dreams know the truth?
1. Chapter One

**PART I - EVIGILO MORS**

_Days and nights has thirty-one; _  
_Swelter'd venom sleeping got, _  
_Boil thou first i' the charmed pot! _  
_Double, double toil and trouble; _  
_Fire burn, and caldron bubble._

-William Shakespeare, _Macbeth_

* * *

**Chapter One  
**_Elia_

Death slouches over the edge of my bed, licking his lips as he caresses my thighs. He sings for me, a voice of screeching cicadas and mosquito wings, and the words rattle on the inside of my head.

_A rope necklace of souls waiting to be freed _  
_Hanging soft on the branches of a shadow tree _  
_Bodies of the traitors littered in the weeds _  
_This is our world as made by you and me..._

My mind throbs with sound as insects gnaw at the skin beneath my nails. I can practically feel my world unraveling, as if someone pulled a single strand of time and suddenly was buried in a massive tangle of threads. I turn to look at Death again. "Why are you here?" As usual, he smiles but speaks no reply.

He is a rude houseguest with yellow teeth, straggly hair, and sallow skin who makes a nightly feast of my sanity and refuses to leave.

Rather than torture myself by sitting in bed, I rise and walk to the window. It is September and the leaves have already turned, hanging limp like flags of surrender off of the twigs. Moonlight bleaches the landscape I see through the narrow window, bone-white and silent. I'd like to go out to the field and do some knife-throw practicing, but Filch has been particularly troublesome in his patrols this year, and if he gave me any trouble I might wind up turning him into my target. There are a few hundred knives and other sharp projectiles in my trunk - I collect them. There are knives, shuriken, throwing stars, throwing axes, arrows, bolts, daggers, and other such materials, as well as a bow, a crossbow that my dad gave me for my birthday last year, a slingshot, and some targets that I use for practice. Moving towards my trunk, I pick one of the projectiles up - a shuriken, made to be concealed in the hand until the last minute before it is thrown. The blade opens easily in my hand. I set my gaze on the old man brick, which sticks out oddly on the far wall of the dorm and frankly looks like the profile of an old man.

Too big a target. The "nose" might work though. The shuriken has four edges and I calculate that the one with the bent tip will hit the nose.

Ready, aim...bull's eye.

Rather than yank it from the wall I pick up a knife and aim at the "eye", and strike directly on point as usual. Five throws later, I realize I'm running out of targets on that brick.

Time for another target.

I yank all seven blades out of the brick and look for something a bit more challenging. This is a classic sleepless night for me. My fifth in a row tonight, I am beginning to question how long I can keep going like this. It's easy enough to go insane. Like I wasn't already. It's harder when people start noticing. Start asking me why they don't see me in the mornings, why I never seem to be in the dormitories at night, why I just seem to not be sleeping at all. And maybe then someone notices that a page has been torn out of the library's copy of _Most Potente Potions_, the page that bore the instructions for creating Evigilo Mors - a forbidden potion that eliminates the user's need for sleep, but can be extremely painful, or even deadly, when it runs out. I sometimes joke with Allen that I could pour it in a cemetery and the dead would all wake up and start walking around again.

I can joke about waking the dead all I want…but as they say, when the dead walk, the living fill the coffins.

My name is Elia Shacklebolt. I am sixteen years old. I have dark, curly hair, olive skin, and silver-blue eyes. I am the daughter of Kingsley Shacklebolt, an Auror, and his wife, Eliana, who died giving birth to me. I take after my mother in looks, but after my father in skill. I am a sixth-year Ravenclaw and a Prefect at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and I may very well be on the road to being Head Girl next year, if I keep my anger in check. This is who I am, and this is who I have always been. At least, that's what they tell me. That's what I tell myself. Death tells me otherwise.

* * *

They say it was a dream, but I know what I saw.

I saw her eyes, sunken into her face like a Jack O'Lantern left out in the rain for too long. She watched me through long, dark, matted curls, stretching her skeletal hands towards me. Her voice cut through the drone of the heavy wind like a knife piercing my skin, the sound of a frantic insect caught on flypaper struggling to escape. "My beautiful daughter. I have waited so long for you." There is a blinding light. Chains spring from her fingertips, the rusted color of dried blood. They snatch at me and though I struggle, they ensnare me, binding me to the spot. I thrash wildly, trying to escape, and wake up moments later entangled in bed sheets, the chains that are trying to drag me back into my nightmares of Azkaban.

These are dreams they say. Your mother is dead. You wake up and it all disappears. You live your life and you forget your nightmares. They go back to Hell, you wake up and continue living on Earth. This is what they say. But they're wrong. I know what I saw.

And I haven't slept since.

* * *

As the clock strikes 4am, I give up any notion of rest and sneak down to the potions room. There is a closet that is kept stocked with all of the tools I need to concoct some Evigilo Mors. And the Room of Requirement provides the ingredients and a safe place to brew it. Once I have collected my supplies, I make my way to the third floor. The Room of Requirement awaits, and Allen should already be there.

Allen Marchena is a sixth-year Gryffindor whom I first met on the Hogwarts Express, first day of my first year. He is a head taller than me with brown hair and sharp eyes of such a pale green that, looking into them, it is easy to forget what you were about to say. He and I have been allies since that first day, when two of the third years were taking a crack at me and he stood up for me. A week later, when a third-year pulled his wand on Allen, I tossed one of my smaller throwing stars and pinned his wand to the wall, effectively ending any bullying we experienced.

As the door opens, Allen is lounging in a corner, twirling his wand. "Well, well." He grins, looking up at me. "Something wicked this way comes."

"Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble." I smirk. Since he and I actually paid attention in Muggle Studies, we have made a joke of reciting Shakespeare lines as greetings. The Macbeth quote is an old favorite. He laughs and rises from his seat to greet me.

"Such it is, Elia Shacklebolt. What wickedry shalt it be this morn?"

"You aren't Shakespeare. The joke is over. We can speak normally now." I roll my eyes. "Besides, you know the routine. Evigilo Mors, right?"

His smile fades. "Right. Let's get started."

As we work over the cauldron, he seems distant, bothered. "What is it?" I finally ask.

"I think you know, Elia." He shakes his head. "You need to cut back on the Evigilo Mors. You'll be one of the dead you wake soon, keep going like this."

"Right." I shake it off.

"Really though. Why do you feel the need to use it so much? You'll drive yourself insane…"

"I just don't want to sleep." I try to shut the images out of my mind, the images of Azkaban.

"What is it?"

"I just don't like the dreams. That's all. I don't like sleeping."

He stares at me, long and hard. "Shall I slip some Veritaserum in this batch? Or will you tell me what's really going on?"

I shrug, fingering the blade I have been using to chop up dried beetles for the potion. "It's just a dream I keep having." A fly whizzes through the air, taunting me with the beating of its wings. I swat it away and continue chopping the beetles.

"What kind of dream?"

"Just…" I think hard about how to phrase it. "Something about my mom. I guess."

"Oh, right. She died giving birth to you…is that why? You just wonder since you never got to meet her?"

The fly is back, and I am in no mood to swat it away again. I chuck the knife at it hard and fast, pinning the fly's lifeless body to the opposite wall. "Not exactly." I mutter, moving across the room to retrieve the knife.

His eyes are wide. "How did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"The knife. You threw it at the fly and caught it right on the body. My throws aren't that good-bloody hell, not even Ollie Wood could throw like that, and he's captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team." Pause. "Oh, and that wall is made out of brick. You hit the wall in between the bricks, and it stuck there."

I pause. I never knew where my fascination or skill with knives came from. It's a strange question I've just never been asked. "Practice, I suppose…"

He seems unconvinced. But the knife is back in my hand, and I can see he has chosen to let go of it rather than pursue the question and risk being the next thing I pin to the wall.

"I don't know." He says at last, a final attempt to get an answer from me. "I saw you with that pointy star-thing - "

"Throwing star."

"Throwing star, right - years ago. But this is something else. I don't know how you did that."

"Maybe it's best you don't know."

* * *

Evigilo Mors takes ten hours to mature, so I bottle up the most recent batch and put the bottles in a clutch that I have a charmed so that it can hold 200 times its own volume. I also take out the last bottle of last week's batch and drink it in two long gulps. It'll hold me over until the next batch matures.

Allen mockingly salutes me as we clean up. "I'd best be off, before Prudey gets back to the dormitory and notices I'm out."

I chuckle. "You're sure, now, he's related to the Weasley twins? Knowing those two it hardly seems possible."

"I hardly believe it myself, but he almost seems to go easy on them. And did you know their little brother started Hogwarts this year?"

I think back to the Sorting Ceremony. Yes, there was a lanky, freckled, ginger-haired boy who fit the profile of a Weasley. "Was it...Donald?"

"Something like that. I think Ronald actually."

"Does he seem more Fred-and-George or Percy to you?"

"Can't tell yet, he barely says a word. But he's good friends with Harry Potter, so that's something."

I drop my knife. "_Harry Potter_? You mean, _the_ Harry Potter?"

"Yeah."

I raise my eyebrows. "That _is_ something." Then I think back again to the first day of term, to Professor Dumbledore's announcement just before the start-of-term banquet. "Hey, Allen. What do you think that was all about? What Dumbledore said about that forbidden corridor?"

"I thought to ask you. Since you're a Prefect. Maybe it's privileged information."

I roll my eyes. "Obviously I don't know, or I wouldn't ask you."

"I don't know anything, Elia."

"Are you curious? I mean, would you check it out?"

"Come on, Elia. I may be a Gryffindor, but 'brave' does not mean 'suicidal.' I'm in no hurry to die, thanks."

I roll my eyes and smirk at him. But inside, I know he's right. The last time somebody disobeyed one of Dumbledore's warnings was during our first year. We were told to stay away from the lake, that something unwelcome had taken up residence there. A second-year Slytherin didn't listen, taking a dare from his friends to poke the water with a stick, and later on, three of his fingers, an ear, and a foot floated up to the surface of the lake. We never found out what happened to the rest of him. Dumbledore had said, with a grave expression, "Let this be a lesson to all of you."

"Alright, everything appears in order here...what's your first class, Elia?"

"N.E.W.T. Transfiguration. Then double Defense Against the Dark Arts, and double Potions with Brett in the afternoon. How about you?"

"First thing? Naptime." he snorts. I know what he means - History of Magic class - and I laugh too.

He checks through a keyhole in the door. "Corridor's clear. Shall we, Ms. Shacklebolt?"

"Call me Elia, Allen. I hear Shacklebolt and I think my dad's standing behind me." I laugh. We pick up our bags and exit carefully.

As I say goodbye to Allen and head down to breakfast, I feel the shudder of warmth sliding down my spine - the Evigilo Mors has taken effect. The clouds of exhaustion hovering around my head slowly clear.

I can keep going like this for as long as it takes. I can totally do it...no, I have to do it.

I have to.


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two  
**_Elia_

It is the end of first period. Professor McGonagall is swooping about the room in her usual fashion, rattling off the basic points of conjuring and banishing spells, and my hand is sore by now from writing at a pace that keeps up with her rapid speech. She finishes uttering our homework assignment just as the bell rings. As we are packing our bags to leave the room, I see her transform into a tabby cat and curl up on the desk in feigned sleep. I know this means that her next class will be a group of first-year students, who do not yet know this trick of hers—she pulled that trick in my first year of classes with her, too, luring late students into a false sense of security and then pouncing. Part of me says that she does it to ensure that she is taken seriously as a Professor of Transfiguration, but the rest of me knows it's just a game for her—whether or not her stoic demeanor betrays it, she has a sadistic sense of humor.

I gather my books into my satchel and start towards the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. It is my sixth year, and Professor Quirrell is the sixth Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher I have had. For some reason, no Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher has ever lasted more than a year. Quirrell is a nervous, twitchy man who wears a purple turban with an odd aroma about it. So far, a few weeks into term, the only interesting thing about his classes has been watching him lose his cool whenever a student asks a question in class. Other teachers in this position started off with bad odds as well, just by the history of the position, but Quirrell's odds are looking worse by the minute. If he doesn't have a heart attack, he'll either resign within a few months or get fired by Dumbledore at the end of term.

In the N.E.W.T. Defense Against the Dark Arts class, he is clearly attempting to be authoritative, but I've tuned him out. I'm reading a book I checked out from the library—_The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts—_and it is teaching me much more than I would learn trying to decipher his lessons through his stutter.

A hand holding a bright purple quill suddenly reaches in front of me and writes on the corner of my parchment: _I give him a month. What do you reckon, E? Worth betting on? -N._

I roll my eyes and write back, _I never bet against someone who rigs the game. We all know what you're like, N. -E. _I grin and show the message to Nina Javeris, a Slytherin sixth-year whom I first met in my second year. It is true that if she placed money on it, she would ensure that Quirrell quit within a month—she'd bribe Peeves into dropping a cabinet on his head so that he'd be forced to quit, even. I learned this unfortunate trait of hers the first day we met. She and Allen bet against each other over the outcome of the Gryffindor vs. Slytherin Quidditch match. He took her up on the bet, thinking that with Charlie Weasley on the Quidditch team, no way Gryffindor could lose. Then, the day of the match, Charlie received some fudge from home that made him very ill when he ate it, and was forced to sit the match out in the hospital wing. Allen was furious—he _knew_ Nina had sent Charlie the fudge, he just _knew _it—and she made no real effort to deny it, just asked him repeatedly where his evidence was. He seemed shocked, but, as I told him, he really shouldn't be surprised at all that a Slytherin would rig a bet.

Nina rolls her eyes and gives me the finger, but smiles at me. She is cheeky and clever, with short, choppy hair that's a different color every year—last year it was lemon-yellow with hot pink streaks, this year it's turquoise—and heavy bangs that are always getting in her eyes, thick-rimmed glasses, dark brown eyes, and a very odd sense of style. Standard attire for her includes a safety pin in her earlobe, an excessive amount of costume jewelry, brightly-colored nail polish, and some odd combination of garments underneath her Hogwarts robes. Plaid skinny-jeans and a black-and-white striped shirt, a pink poodle skirt and a slashed-up black shirt, floral shorts and a men's button-down shirt complete with bowtie—she calls herself eclectic, I say that nobody except her could pull those clothes off without being called mental. Somehow, though, it always works for her.

She taps her quill on the parchment and writes again: _I should kill you before you reveal my secrets. Lunch with me in Hogsmeade? -N._

_Sure, but know this. Poison me, and Peeves and I will team up to torture you every day for the rest of your life. -E._

_I'll go for something less obvious when I do kill you, E. Split the bill 50-50. -N._

_No, pay for our own stuff. Otherwise you'll break my wallet with your meal. -E._

_You have no idea, do you? -N._

I grin, and check to make sure that Quirrell isn't looking. Once I've made sure he is turned the other way, I crumple up the sheet Nina wrote on and chuck it at her. She giggles and smacks it away.

* * *

Most of the students who visit Hogsmeade during the breaks will go to The Three Broomsticks or another such venue. Nina, as always, has her own ideas. No sooner are we outside of the school gates that she grins and opens her tote to show me the contents—a large stash of food she clearly stole from the kitchens earlier, neatly packaged in small wrapped parcels. "Forget about paying for food, we've got a free restaurant of the top class in the school. The bill is something else."

I shake my head. "I should've known."

She leads me down to The Hog's Head, the pub at the far end of town that is four times seedier than a cornfield. When we reach it she drags me around a corner into the alley at its side. A tall, hooded figure leans against the wall, puffing on a long pipe. She approaches him. "Bottle of Firewhiskey. Medium in size. Nothing too cheap, but don't break my wallet, either."

"Olyve Samander's brand, then. One galleon, three sickles." he says in a low monotone without looking at her.

She nudges me. "This is where you pay up. We split 50-50 like I said."

Rolling my eyes, I dig in my pocket and pull out ten silver sickles. "Fine."

She smirks and hands him the money, and he draws a bottle of Olyve Samander's Firewhiskey from inside his cloak. He hands it to her and disappears into the side door of the pub. She grins wickedly at me. "C'mon, we'll eat up by the Whomping Willow. Not too close to it, of course…I like my neck, I don't want it broken."

I shrug and agree. Eating near the Whomping Willow could end disastrously if we got too close to it, but Nina talks her way out of enough trouble that I'm betting she knows the safe distance, she's probably crossed the line once before. Besides, I'm a Prefect. Can't risk anyone seeing me sharing a bottle of Firewhiskey with Slytherin's resident rebel-without-a-cause.

We settle on the grass several meters away from the Whomping Willow. It shudders and inclines for a moment in our direction, but doesn't move to attack us.

She pulls a few parcels out of her tote—a bowl of thick, rich meat stew, a couple of roast pork sandwiches on crispy buns, three eclairs, and half a dozen jelly doughnuts—and grabs a bottle opener. When she cracks open the Firewhiskey, there is a miniature explosion and a puff of smoke. She raises the bottle to me before taking a swig. "Here's to you, Elia Shacklebolt. Here's to you, and kicking back before our last year of Hogwarts. And then, bloody hell, we've got the world to deal with!" She takes a long drink and passes it to me. When she burps there are a few sparks.

"What are you, now? A goddamn dragon?" I laugh at her before taking a swig myself. "Here's to getting pasted while I'm supposed to be chasing third years away from the Hog's Head!"

"Drink to that!" Nina is howling with laughter, and I am reminded of why I am friends with her. In the eyes of the teachers I am the daughter of Kingsley and Eliana Shacklebolt, two of the most well-respected Aurors of our time, and a talented student. In the eyes of my peers I am the Prefect and the model student who keeps to herself and acts like she's above all of them. Allen allows my not-so-perfect side to surface once in a while, but I know he worries about me—he'd never stand for me sitting by the Whomping Willow, chugging illegally-bought Firewhiskey with someone even the Slytherins will call trouble. But sometimes I just want to be a little bit stupid and have some fun—and Nina is the perfect outlet for that side of me.

She pulls a small blue cloth sack from her pocket and starts cramming random items from her tote into it. "Snacks for later, Elia?" she asks after washing down a mouthful of sandwich with a swig from the bottle. "Take it, there's plenty more where that came from, and I can always go to the kitchens again later."

I look into the bag, which is filling quickly, and then at her, and back at the bag again a few times. "How did you even know where the kitchens are?" I ask in amazement.

"You'd be amazed what the Weasley twins will tell you in exchange for the password to the Slytherin common room. Apparently they wanted to leave a surprise for a few enemies there, I gave it to them and steered very clear for the rest of the day." she laughs. "Those two don't pick their battles wisely, but they do good business with me, and their childish pranks have their charm."

I roll my eyes. Of course, Nina Javeris would get along great with Fred and George Weasley. In addition to the fact that they love pranks and are too smart for their own good, they share several common enemies in the Slytherin house. Although Nina is Slytherin in the sense that she's a pureblood and she'll do whatever is necessary to achieve her desires, she carries a hefty dislike for many of her peers, so I can see her allying with the Weasley twins to torment some of them. "I should've known." Pause. "Did their brother find out they broke into the Slytherin common room and left something awful for the next unfortunate souls to enter the room?"

"What? No—as far as he knows, they were at Quidditch practice when it happened."

"Why weren't they?"

Nina grins and waggles her eyebrow. "Old Ollie Wood had the flu, remember? Quite sudden, too."

I groan. "You keep poisoning people and eventually you're going to get caught. What did they give you in exchange for that one?"

She smiles. "Something very, very useful. I gotta give it back to them when I graduate next year, though. They were clear on that, they weren't giving it to me, they were letting me borrow it for a few years."

I consider asking, but I change my mind. If knowing what it was would be something I could handle gracefully, then she would've just told me.

She clears her throat. "You and Allen should watch your backs…continue to rendezvous with him in the 'disappearing room' every few days, people will start to talk."

I stare blankly at her. "Where are you hearing that crap?"

"Didn't hear it nowhere, El, but I know it's true. What do you guys even do in that room, hm? Tell me all the details." She grins suggestively at me.

"How about this instead: I charm one of your nail polish bottles so it will flash different colors while on your nails, and you never mention that to anyone. Not to Allen, not to me, not to anyone else. Oh, and I also won't tell Filch—or anyone else, for that matter—about your plans for the Zonko's endless itching powder all over his office. Might even help you pull it off. Is that a deal?"

She rolls her eyes. "You draw a hard bargain, Elia. But, it's done. I was never good with charms, glad you've agreed to help me here." She extends her hand to me.

"Good." I take her hand and shake firmly. "I'll tell you this, though: Allen and I aren't doing anything there I wouldn't do in front of you. If I were going to take a pass at him, I've got a few better places I know of than that room."

Nina smirks. "I doubt it, that place is whatever you need it to be." She knows about the Room of Requirement—she was the one who sold me its location in exchange for me teaching her how to properly perform a summoning charm. Charms have always been her weakness, and since I am skilled in it, I can always use a Charms lesson as a bargaining chip with Nina.

"You think? You've never been to the Prefect's bathroom if that's what you believe."

She grins. "I suppose not, Elia. Any way I could buy that secret off of you?"

"No way. It's way too nice for me to give you the chance to rig it." I smirk. "Plus you'd be too eager to sell off its secret, and then my ass is on the fire."

She shrugs. "Whatever you say."

* * *

Potions passes quickly enough. It's always been my best class—Professor Snape has said it is truly a shame I was not a Slytherin, my understanding of the art of potion-making is impressive even to him. He is usually very foul-tempered with anyone who is not a Slytherin, but he does seem to take a liking to me. After the class ends, I leave the dungeons alongside Brett Lau. Brett is a sixth-year Hufflepuff. He is within a half-inch of my height with dark, slanted eyes, golden skin, and short-cropped back hair. His career advisory left him with the decision that he would work as a healer at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. He is very skilled in potion-making, particularly in crafting antidotes, so he gets by in Professor Snape's N.E.W.T. potions class just fine as long as he keeps his head down. Because he dislikes Professor Snape personally, he usually doesn't speak in class at all, lest he speak his mind without meaning to. Once we're clear of the dungeons, I nudge him. "The professor's not here, you can open your mouth now."

He sighs, as if he's been holding his breath this whole time. "I hate that bastard and if I get the chance to I'll put a hex on him that will make him dance uncontrollably for hours. I know the perfect one, too! Tarantallegra and see if he's sneering at me then! Oh, I'd love that!" he rattles off at a rapid pace, as if just getting it out of his system before talking normally. Then he looks at me. "Yeah, it's a relief. Those dungeons give me the creeps."

I chuckle. I am long since used to this quirk of Brett's. He is always inclined to say exactly what he is thinking, but he recognizes that sometimes, as in when in close quarters with an authority figure he despises, it is best to hold his tongue. So he keeps his mouth shut until the coast is clear—and then he says everything that he'd wanted to say but held in prior. It's like the breaking of a dam, and it all comes pouring out. But as soon as the initial rush ends, he is rational and calm as if nothing ever happened. He's an odd one, but we've become good friends since first year, when we often paired up in the classes Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff shared. I've learned to work very well with him. He is also friends with Allen, but he carries a heavy dislike of Nina. "Backstabbing scum" is one of his less-than-affectionate ways of referring to her, but he has hundreds of them, each one more profane than the one before. "Nice to breathe fresh air, right? The air in the dungeons always seems stale. Here…" I reach into the bag of food Nina gave me earlier and pull out a jelly doughnut. "Have a doughnut. At the very least should cheer you up."

His eyes light up. "Yes! I love these! Thanks, Elia—where'd you get it?"

"Let's just say I've got connections who know where the kitchens are, and how to get whatever they want from the kitchens. All I gotta do is ask." I deliberately forget to mention that Nina is the connection—if I told him the doughnuts came from Nina he'd puke out of the fear that she'd put a poison in it.

He smiles, wiping the dusting of sugar off of his upper lip. "The Weasley twins, right?"

I realized long ago that if you smile, raise your eyebrow, and cock your head to the side when asked a question like this, people think you are confirming their beliefs, so you don't actually have to lie to them, you just let them believe as they believe anyhow. When I do this, he laughs and licks his lips. "Think you could ask them for one of those pies that came up last Halloween? The banoffee cream ones? Those were amazing, I don't want to have to wait until Halloween to have another one of those!"

I shrug and nod. "I'll see what I can do."

When Brett and I start making tracks for the "Postal Tree"—so-called because when we can't all meet there in person, we leave notes for each other tucked into the branches—Allen is already there, seated with his back against the trunk of the tree. In the hard sunlight he looks quite different than he does in the soft semi-darkness of the Room of Requirement. The brightness carves harsh shadows into his scruffy jawline and illuminates the faint splatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose and cheeks. In the light I can also see that his hair isn't just brown—it has reddish-bronze hues alongside the chestnut-brown, colors that seem to only show up in the sun. He smiles and clambers to his feet when he sees us approaching. "Elia! Brett! Thought you guys had forgotten about me out here, thought I'd have to start handing out applications to hire some new friends."

I laugh. "No such luck, Allen. You're still stuck with us, for now at least."

"What are you reading, there, Allen?" Brett asks, approaching Allen and pointing at the book in his hands. As Brett is checking the cover of the book, Allen's eyes meet mine. I grin and make my way towards him, and he mouths "Something wicked this way comes."

I roll my eyes and smirk.

"Didn't know you had an interest in dragons, Al." Brett says with a curious look.

"I'm not." Allen replies. "You know it's my goal to work for the Invisibility Task Force of the Ministry of Magic. One of my jobs could be keeping dragons out of the sight and awareness of Muggles, and calling in Obliviators if a Muggle does happen to sight one. So this is a bit of job-related reading for me."

"Oh, gotcha." Brett nods. "How does the Ministry keep that under control, anyhow?"

"Well, it's evolved a lot over the years…"

Allen starts explaining to Brett about how the Ministry's policies and regulations for dealing with dragons have transformed over the ages, Brett stopping occasionally to ask for details or clarification, and I tune them out. I notice at that moment, tucked into one of the branches, a slip of parchment. I pick it up and unfold it carefully. _It's from today, _I realize as I glance at it.

_Elia-  
We need to talk, privately.  
Meet me in the Room of Requirement at midnight.  
We need a place where we can talk about something serious and not worry about anyone hearing it. _

_Allen_

I glance at him. His mouth is still giving Brett a history lecture about the history of governmental involvement in the dragon population of Europe. But his eyes are on mine, and the message on his gaze is clear: _I'm not gonna tell Brett or anyone else about this, but I'm worried about you. I need your reassurance that you know what you're doing. Will you be there tonight?_

I nod slightly. _I understand. I'll be there._

* * *

As the sun sinks below the horizon, I am in the Ravenclaw common room, taking notes on various spells, potions and enchantments used in disguise and concealment. The shadows from the tall window on the west wall of the tower grow steadily longer and longer, and then fade—and then the room empties as one by one, each of the students in the room makes their way up to the dormitory.

At last I am the only one left, sitting in the armchair nearest the fire, alternately studying and gazing absently into the flames. The clock on the wall says it is 11:02. I should probably leave in about 10 minutes.

Then, suddenly, there he is again.

Death.

Crouched on the mantle, then seated in the armchair opposite me, then floating at my shoulder—his image flickers in and out of nothingness, in and out of shadow. He is grinning wickedly, the broken fibers of his cheeks stretched beyond what is possible for a human. I can see the bones of his jaws through the tears in his yellow-gray skin. His eyes are covered by tightly-wound bandages, the majority of his form concealed by his ragged cloak and raised hood. He smells of rotting leaves, burning flesh, and dried blood.

He opens his mouth and is singing again:

_The darkness was lean,  
The wind cool at my back  
In the absence of light  
I grew stronger  
With the daybreak  
I grew wiser  
I would hide in the shadows of their minds  
Icy lips and glassy eyes  
Endless, my craving for this truth called "Never"  
Unwinds like a poisonous snake at their throats_

Then he turns in my direction and grins.

"Why are you here?" I ask again. "If you wanted to take me, you would've done so already."

"Why would I kill you?" he laughs. "You've given me a way to visit the world of the living, every night, every day. I merely stop by at the end of each day to express my thanks."

I shoot Death a quizzical glance. "What?"

"That lovely potion you craft…its consumption brings me here. I am awakened from the darkness, given freedom to roam in the living-world, take back souvenirs as I choose…and in return, I free you from your darkness…" He chuckles. "Your sleep."

"You aren't even _real_."

"I am very real, to the contrary. I am just as real as those dreams you're so afraid of."

I feel the color drain from my face. "How do you know about those?"

"I've passed through you enough times now, yes. I know what those dreams are, and why you're so afraid of them that you signed this contract with me to keep them away."

"Wait. Contract? What contract? And those dreams, you know about them too? You can tell me what they mean?"

"You were unaware? Oh, does the truth of forbidden potions die with time? Very well, I will explain. Evigilo Mors, it is a contract…from the moment that it crosses your lips, your soul is shared with me. You must continue to drink it until the time comes for me to collect you. And if you violate my contract…there are consequences. You either live sleepless for the rest of your life, or you face my wrath.

"As for the dreams, yes, I know all about them, and I can answer your questions of them. But think carefully before you seek the truth, young one. Once the truth is uncovered, you cannot bury it again. I see far too many fools who seek both truth and happiness, and fail to realize that often, those two cannot coexist."

I stare straight at the space where I know his eyes are. He is quietly singing another song, but I cannot catch it over the crackle of the fire. "It's an unfortunate trait of us Ravenclaws, isn't it? We seek the truth." I say sternly, and my voice comes out much more confident and forceful than the words feel in my heart.

"No, it's odd. I'd think that you, more than any of the others, could apply your clever minds and know that sometimes a comfortable lie is preferable to a rather disturbing truth. Was I wrong in this assumption?"

I say nothing in response.

"That is all for my visit tonight, I'll be off now." His grin is stretched like a Jack-o'-Lantern, and his skin is tearing further with the smile. I can see all of his teeth through the torn skin.

"Wait!" I jump to stop him. "I want to ask you something!"

"Then ask me when we see each other again. I've answered several of your questions already, I cannot humor the whims and curiosities of a child all night. I am called elsewhere." He raises one arm in my direction, and in a swirl of tattered fabric, is gone.

Then I realize I am shaking. Tremors, working their way through my body, through my soul. The Evigilo Mors in my clutch should be matured by now…I can probably drink it. But should I?

I think of what Death said to me, about the contract.

There is no turning back now.

I grab a bottle from the clutch. The fluid inside has gone from the translucent honey-golden it was this morning to the thick, opaque maroon it turns when it is matured. My hands are shaking so badly that I almost drop the bottle while opening it. Trembling, I lift the bottle to my lips and empty it in one long drink. I feel the warmth spilling down my spine moments later. My shaking immediately stops. Then it occurs to me: Did Death really stop by, as he'd claimed, to thank me? Or have his visits been something else—a reminder, a warning, that I cannot escape him, and therefore I must never break our contract—all along?

I look at the clock. 11:19. It's still a bit early, but I should start heading out, I decide. If there's one thing I know about Allen, after all these years, it's that he's never late—and if anything, tonight, he's already there waiting for me.

* * *

When I arrive at the corridor that is the entrance to the Room of Requirement, I pace back and forth for a moment, thinking: _I need a place where Allen and I can speak privately, and not worry about anyone eavesdropping on us._

On my third pass, a door materializes.

I open it and step inside. There is a large couch with a low wooden table beside it in the middle of the room, and all along the walls are shelves lined with devices that I recognize from my father's office as Dark Detectors. A Sneakoscope, a Foe Glass, a Secrecy Sensor. I can't identify most of the others, but I know that their functions are probably similar. The ceiling is one large pane that emits a bluish light slightly dimmer than a classroom's lighting. And sitting on the couch, fiddling with his wand, is Allen.

It is amazing how a simple change of lighting transforms Allen's appearance completely. In bright sunlight, he looks like what he is—a cheerful, lively teenage boy. In the semidarkness that I usually see him in when we are making Evigilo Mors, he looks paler and more tired, as if the lighting ages him instantly to a middle-aged man. And in this light, his face is softened and his eyes appear to almost glow in the dark—he looks younger, almost childlike.

"O hell-kite," I grin at him. A stern look from him knocks the smile off of my face. "No Shakespeare this time, I guess?"

"Not this time." he confirms, and motions for me to come and sit down next to him. "Elia, I want to know what's really going on. What really happened that has you so afraid of going to sleep. You've been doing this for two weeks now. I've been going along with it, but I'm not going any further until you tell me what's going on."

I glare at him. "What if I don't want to tell you? I don't have to tell you anything! This is my problem. It's none of your business."

The look on his face makes me regret that I said it. "El, I'm not your dad. I'm not here to tell you what to do or who to be…I'm not trying to force you into anything…we are _best friends. _If we can't trust each other, then who can we trust? All I want is to know the truth. There's more to the situation than you're telling me, and I'm worried about you. Did something happen?"

I lower my eyes. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that stuff." I mutter as I make my way over to the couch and sit down next to him. "You're right…there is more to this whole thing than I really told you. But I don't know how to explain it, it's easier not to talk about."

He nods understandingly. "Well, let's try this. I'll ask you questions about it, make things as simple as possible, you answer honestly. How does that sound?"

If there's one person I know I can trust with the truth, it's Allen.

I have to try.

I nod. "Okay."

He looks relieved. "Great." Then he pauses. "Okay, first question. You told me this was all about a dream you were having. Is it really a dream that's bothering you, or something in real life?"

_Fuck. _Of all the questions he could have started with, he started with the one thing that is terrifying me the most.

"That's the thing, Allen." I reply at last. My voice is shaking again. "I don't know."

"What do you mean?"

"See, what I told you before…that I didn't want to sleep because I kept having dreams about my mother…it was true. But I didn't tell you the whole thing. In the dreams, my mother is alive. Like, she's alive, now. But she's in Azkaban, and she's telling me to come and save her."

He furrows his brow. "What? Then it's gotta be just a dream. Your mother is dead. Nothing can bring back the dead."

"My mother is dead." I repeat. "Well, that's what they told me."

Allen frowns for a moment. Then he shakes his head rapidly. "No way, Elia. That's crazy. Why would your family lie to you?"

"It's just me and my dad. I don't have any other family. And…" I pause. "He'd lie to me…if he felt obligated to protect me from the truth. He's done it before, as an Auror. Tells me he'll be at one place, then he's actually off somewhere else, investigating a murder…but he tells me a lie in case anyone comes to the house looking for him, like looking to hurt or kill him, I'll be safe because I honestly know nothing and they'll be able to see that. If my mom was a dark witch and was thrown into prison, he would lie to me about that. He'd do everything in his power to make sure I never found out."

The moment the words leave my mouth, I realize the truth in them. My dad could easily lie to me. He wouldn't even think twice of it. And, I finally realize, there's a very good chance now that he has been lying to me for my entire life.


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**_  
Elia_

My hands are shaking.

I notice this at the end of my Defense Against the Dark Arts class. They are shaking again—I spill a bottle of ink as I am attempting to pack my books into my satchel. I mumble an apology to the boy sitting next to me—an irate-looking Gryffindor sixth-year—and whip out my wand to clean it up.

My hands have been shaking all the time lately, in the past couple of weeks since my conversation with Death. We haven't spoken since—he's appeared several times, but never comes close enough for me to speak to him. He is always smiling when I spot him, and then he vanishes before I can reach him. My hands are always shaking, even when I have taken the Evigilo Mors.

It's just collateral damage, as far as I'm concerned. When the lie is broken, my coordination goes with it. I tried to hit a target with one of my knives yesterday, and for the first time in years, I missed. My hands will not stop shaking. The questions refuse to let me go.

The moment I exit the classroom, I make tracks for the girls' bathroom. I dunk my hands into a sink full of ice-cold water, hoping that the shock will be enough to still them. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, a reflection speckled with flecks of grime and residue smears. "My name is Elia Shacklebolt." I say to my reflection. "I am the daughter of Kingsley Shacklebolt, one of the most well-respected Aurors of our time, and his wife Eliana. This is who I am. This is who I always was."

My voice is shaking. Even my own reflection doesn't seem to trust me.

"My name is Elia Shacklebolt."

Even that seems doubtful to me now.

* * *

It is 3:27a.m. The sun has not yet risen on Halloween. And yet the air already sings of fear. Death has not paid me a visit today. He must be busy elsewhere, plenty to do on Halloween. I chuckle at this thought.

Allen and I are in the Room of Requirement. We have finished the active part of the preparation of Evigilo Mors—now, we have to let it sit on the fire until its color goes from murky green to translucent yellow-orange. He is watching the cauldron to make sure it doesn't boil over as I carve a face into the pumpkin I grabbed yesterday from Hagrid's pumpkin patch. It is a quiet, meditative air in the room—neither of us is speaking. Both of us are intensely focused on our task.

That's when it happens.

The air goes cold quite suddenly. A wave crashing onto the rocks at my feet startles me, the foaming mouth of Neptune gnashing its jaws at me. I am standing on a rocky island in the midst of a wild storm. Behind me there is raging ocean and thundering clouds indistinguishable in the distance, an infinite battle of sea fighting sky. And before me there is a towering fortress of stone. Shadowy beings of tattered black fabric swirl around over the fortress. I open my mouth to speak—to who? I'm not sure—and the words are bitten off, shoved back down my throat by the wind. One of the shadows spots me and whirls towards me, descending on me faster than I am able to stumble away. Its hood suddenly flies off—and the grinning, blinded face of Death stares back at me.

_Darkness was great, but love was greater  
Darkness has fallen and Night will chase  
Night will fall and Hell will rise  
And from Night born Hell will bring Darkness his fate  
Night wrapped in shackles  
Darkness shrouded in Death  
She born of Night, and named of Hell  
Will bring the marked ones' prophecy to face  
A Lord, a Lieutenant, a Trinity of Evil  
The choice on the last,  
Fifteen years made  
But never her own_

The voice doesn't belong to Death. It belongs to a little girl. Couldn't be over twelve. The words are bitten off suddenly at the end as if she'd intended to keep speaking but someone grabbed her tongue and yanked it straight from her head.

I stand in the shadow of Azkaban, and Death has brought me here.

_Elia? Can you hear me? You in there?_

It's Allen's voice, but it's a thousand years away. I think to respond, but where do I turn? He's not here…

_Elia! Don't just sit there staring at me! Say something!_

The earth quakes. And then another voice. My father's.

_You're safe now. I will protect you, no matter what it takes._

And just like that, the vision is gone, evaporated around me. I am back in the Room of Requirement, and I am lying slumped sideways over the side of my chair. My eyes burn. Allen is crouched in front of me, his eyes wide with panic.

"Oh my god…I'm going to get help…stay here…" he's muttering.

"Allen?" I choke out, sitting up slowly. I squeeze my eyes shut and when I open them again, my vision is blurry.

He stares at me for a moment, then falls back into a sitting position, sighing with relief. "Thank god." he breathes, "You scared me half to death. What the bloody hell was that all about?"

I look around. The knife is lying on the floor next to the smashed pumpkin. I must have dropped them when I had the vision, and that was what got Allen's attention. "I don't know…I just, I don't know, checked out for a minute…"

His gaze hasn't left me for a moment. He stares intently at me. "Elia, do you even realize what happened?"

I frown. I know what I saw. But I don't know what he is seeing. "Can you tell me?"

He takes a deep breath. And begins.

His description of what happened is quite different than what I'd thought. He describes feeling an odd draftiness in the room, and looking around to see where it could have come from. When he looked back at me, my eyes had rolled back into my head, and the knife and the pumpkin had fallen from my hands. My limbs were stiff and I was shaking violently. He'd gone up to me to ask if I was okay, and I'd suddenly started speaking in an unfamiliar voice—something about darkness and fate and the marked ones, it really made no sense. He started trying to talk to me, see if I could hear him, and I had no reaction. He'd shaken me, yelling, trying to wake me up. That was when my body went limp and he began to panic.

Then…well, from there, he said, I should be able to remember, considering I woke up at that point.

"Elia, something is wrong. I should get you to Madame Pomfrey, I don't even—I'm worried about you, please. Let's get you help."

"She won't be able to help." I rub my shoulder, where the arm of the chair hit it. "This has nothing to do with being sick. I should've figured this would happen."

He furrows his brow. "That what would happen?"

"I was afraid of those dreams because I knew they weren't just dreams—they meant something. I mean if they were just dreams then a Dreamless Sleep potion would've stopped them, and not sleeping would have flat-out been the end of it. But I know—I always knew—they weren't just dreams. With that, it kind of figures in that they would've come back to me in some other form." And to the best of my ability, I explain to him the vision—what I saw. The only part I leave out is seeing Death—I've told Allen pretty much everything, except my meetings with Death. Somehow I feel like telling him about Death wouldn't help things at all.

Allen is silent. I notice the flame under the cauldron has been extinguished—the Evigilo Mors must have finished. Finally, he speaks. "Elia…if that's the case…you can't keep hiding. You'll go insane if you keep running and it keeps finding you. I think you've got to just face it, try to find out what it means…"

"Easy for you to say!" I burst out. "You're a fucking Gryffindor. You're the brave ones. I'm not brave. I'm fucking terrified. I can't face it. I can't! And I can't stop taking the Evigilo Mors. I can't break it. I can't do this!"

Allen suddenly throws his arms around me. "You think being a Gryffindor means I'm not afraid?" he growls, "Well, it doesn't. I'm scared as hell right now. I'm scared for you. I'm scared of whatever this thing is in your dreams. I'm scared of what this all means. But..in the end, what it means for me…I decide what I'm most afraid of, and what fears are worth facing to avoid that worst fear. And right now, what I'm most afraid of is seeing my best friend kill herself and being unable to do anything to stop it. That's it." He holds me at arm's length and shakes me slightly. "You understand? I'm willing to face whatever the truth is, if it means that you don't keep going down this way. End of the day, being a Gryffindor means that you decide what is most important, and fight for it, no matter what kind of pain it causes you."

For a moment I am too stunned to speak. Allen is usually very cheerful—he worries sometimes but he never really loses his cool and gets upset like this. Of the two of us, I'm the minefield—where one wrong step brings an outburst of rage—and he's the chipper one who just surfs the larger waves and goofs around in the peaceful waters. In a way, seeing him freak out like this is unnatural for me. Finally, I muster up the will to squeeze out a simple, "Okay."

He shakes his head, glancing at the cauldron. "You've got to get yourself off of that stuff. If you don't, things will only keep getting worse. That nightmare hit you just now. Who's to say it won't happen other times? In class? At meals? In front of your father? Nothing good can come from continuing this."

I feel a pang of fear as he says this. On the one hand, I know he has a point—I gain nothing from continuing this, and I risk everything.

But on the other hand, I also know something about the Evigilo Mors that he doesn't. This is no ordinary drug addiction. This is a contract that has been signed—a contract with something not living, not human, not limited by the means of magic.

I risk everything in my life if I stop taking it.

Even if I do survive, the pain will be intense, and long drawn-out. Even if I were to stop taking it, I couldn't do it now—I'd be destroying my own life if I did. I wouldn't be able to take time out of class without the teachers figuring out something was up. If they did, my father would find out what has been happening. And that cannot happen.

I can't let my father find out about this. I can't.

I tell Allen, "I'll think about it."

* * *

When the mail comes during breakfast, it brings a letter from my father. I offer the owl that delivered it a couple of bacon rinds—which he gobbles down quickly before flying off—and stash the letter quickly in my sleeve. Once I've finished eating, I excuse myself quietly from the room and duck behind a staircase to read the letter.

_Dear Elia,_

_I'm sorry it's taken me a while to write back to you. I received your letter, but I've been on a special assignment from the Ministry, it has commanded much of my time and attention, and it's been hard to find time to write back._

_To your questions about your new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, yes, I am familiar with Quirinus Quirrell. He worked briefly in the Invisibility Task Force for the Ministry, I interacted with him on several occasions. He had quite a brilliant mind, but was rarely taken seriously because he lacked confidence and presence. It is my understanding that he also considered going into Auror training. He was a Ravenclaw, like yourself—clever, idealistic, talented. He had an incredibly deep practical understanding of Defensive Magic, but his confidence often failed him in situations of crisis. He was prone to panic._

_I advised him myself to steer clear of the profession of Auror. I suggested that he go to Hogwarts and apply for the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, train the next generation of Aurors. He insisted on traveling, trying to gain some firsthand practical experience in fighting the Dark Arts, but from my understanding, things didn't go as planned. He fancies himself as a fighter of the Dark Arts, and he is quite talented in Defensive Magic—but because of his timid temperament, his abilities never hold up under pressure. There were a few incidents during his travels that left him thoroughly shaken and I would wager a bit paranoid._

_I understand, Elia, that he doesn't come across as experienced and authoritative. But he is your professor and you must show him the respect he is due. We have had this conversation many times before—you will never learn from others if you refuse to respect them. Professor Quirrell has much that he can teach you. I am pleased that you have decided to follow in my footsteps as an Auror. But the one thing that separates an Auror from a Dark Wizard is respect. One, an Auror, seeks respect, and respects others. A Dark Wizard seeks to be feared, and has no respect for others. Otherwise, both are quite similar._

_You are my daughter, Elia, and I trust you to learn from your mistakes. You are beautiful, clever, highly protective of those you love, and deeply invested in every task and every cause you take on. You are a talented witch and I am confident that you will succeed in everything that you take on this year and beyond. And I am proud to have you as my daughter. Please do not disappoint me._

_To answer your other question, yes, Tonks has been accepted into the second level of the Auror training program. I've had her placed under my guidance this time. She has generally excelled thus far, although stealth and tracking has been an area of weakness for her. I'll pass on your greetings to her, she asks about you frequently. She's mentioned possibly stopping by Hogsmeade and having lunch with you and some other old friends at some point._

_Thank you for writing, and once again, I'm sorry it's taken me so long to reply._

_Love,  
Dad_

_P.S.: Please give my regards to Professor Quirrell for me. Tell him I hope this year finds him well._

I read the letter again several times. Those who don't know my father, or who know him only by name or reputation, cannot possibly understand the affect he has on people. When he looks at someone, regardless of if they are Albus Dumbledore, a fumbling first-year at Hogwarts, a Muggle, a goblin, a centaur, or even a house-elf, his eyes hold the deepest respect, and his presence brings many who interact with him a mix of intimidation and admiration that I can only describe as awe. He is a tall, dark, broad-shouldered man who speaks little but whose words are not just heard, but felt deeply. He is calm and composed, and he puts those he works with at ease both by being an extremely capable wizard who won't let any of his friends get hurt, and by showing his deep respect for the abilities and characters of everyone he encounters.

Nobody knows his affect on people better than myself. Growing up, I experienced it every day. I lived in awe of my father. He was all at once the foundation that held up our house, the walls that kept us safe from the darkness in our world, and the roof that shielded us from what nobody can control. He was never a disciplinarian—he never raised a hand in punishment. Rather, he let my mistakes speak for themselves. When, in my first year, when I used a throwing star to pin a third-year's wand to the wall when he was bullying Allen, he didn't punish me, but rather made sure that I understood the weight of my own mistakes. His words I remember precisely to this day: "I understand that you were protecting a friend, Elia. But there are better ways to go about that than resorting immediately to violence. If you had missed, even by an inch, when you threw, you could have seriously injured, or even killed, that boy. And you know, deep down, that it was wrong, what you did—you knew that there were better ways to handle it. Don't deny that you did, I know how smart you are. I think that you sought to make that boy respect you by showing him what you could do. But there is a difference between respect and fear, and I want for you to think, long and hard, about whether you crave to be respected, or to be feared." His words that day stung me worse than any curse could have, cut me deeper than any of the knives in my collections would be able to. On that day, I apologized to the boy, and I made a vow to never throw a knife where it could potentially endanger someone else again. I almost threw out my entire collection, but I changed my mind at the last minute.

He has the kind of affect on me where, even without the promise of reward or the threat of punishment, I seek to do as he says, motivated by respect and admiration alone.

I read the last couple of lines of his fifth paragraph again.

_You are a talented witch and I am confident that you will succeed in everything that you take on this year and beyond. And I am proud to have you as my daughter. Please do not disappoint me._

The words on the paper blur.

_I am proud to have you as my daughter._

I fight back the sob working its way up my throat. I have been feeling so much anger and confusion towards my father, and yet these simple words of praise, his declaration of his pride in me, still mean so much to me, they move me almost to tears.

I fold the paper slowly and press the corner to my lips.

"I won't disappoint you, Dad."

I will stop taking the Evigilo Mors, no matter what price I have to pay.

* * *

During the afternoon break between Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts, I am on my way to the Ravenclaw common room when I am apprehended by Nina. "Come on, Elia!" she squeals, "You gotta check out what they're doing in the Great Hall for Halloween decorations!"

"Halloween decorations? Like what you've done to your hair?" I smirk. Nina's hair is split down the middle—black on one side and bright orange on the other—and is adorned with several clips that have miniature bats fluttering around them. She's switched out her usual purple glasses chain for a black one, and her typically violet lipstick has been switched for black. All of this on top of a cheesy Jack-o'-Lantern jumper and a black tutu-like skirt under her Hogwarts robes. Her overall look is cheesy in the way only she could pull it off without looking tacky.

She sneers elegantly at me. "Shut up, I look cuter than you, and you know it. Now, come on, you've gotta see this!"

She grabs my arm and drags me down to the Great Hall where, indeed, the decorations have started going up. Professor McGonagall is busily conjuring swarms of bats that are circling the ceiling, and Professor Flitwick appears to have charmed hundreds of Jack-o'-Lanterns to take the places of the floating candles that typically light the ceiling. She smiles. "Check it out!"

I look straight at her. "There's another reason you're here. Filch would have to be dancing naked across the tables singing The Weird Sisters music and waving around Mrs. Norris's burning carcass for you to be this excited over something in the Great Hall. Now, why is it that you really wanted to drag me down this way?"

She smirks. "I know a secret passageway to Filch's office. We pass through here, act like we're just checking out the decor, and then head over there." she whispers. "You said you'd help me punk his office, I'm holding you to that. After that we'll make a quick run for the kitchens before you go to your next class. So we get our tricks _and_ our treats this Halloween. Are you in, or out?"

I roll my eyes. _Figures. _"Fine, I'm in. It wouldn't have killed you to tell me that upfront, though."

"You're right, but it might've gotten us caught. Too many do-gooders in that hallway. Have to watch what I say and where I say it." And with that, she's pulling me to the side, past the Great Hall and to a hallway lined with tapestries. She stops in front of one of them, which has a suit of armor next to it, and digs in her pockets, cursing for a moment.

"What are you doing?" I ask her.

"This suit of armor, he's a stubborn one. Won't let you pass unless you give him something sweet to eat. Like a child. Ah, here we go…" She stops, pulling a Chocolate Frog out of her pocket. She extracts the frog and shoves it under the visor of the helmet.

A moment later, the suit of armor springs to life and steps aside. The stones in the wall and the floor start shifting, moving around to create an opening in the wall, revealing a stairway leading down into a tunnel. She smiles. "You'll get another candy on the way back. A Fizzing Whizbee, if that suits your tastes." Pause. "By the way, if any of the teachers ask, nobody even comes down this hallway." The suit of armor salutes her, and she grins and returns the salute. "Always a pleasure, sir. Oh, and this is Elia. Try setting up the same arrangement you and I have with her. She's with me. She's good." The suit of armor bows to me, and I awkwardly do the same, still slightly stunned by the fact that Nina even makes deals with the suits of armor in the school. She steps into the tunnel and beckons me to follow her. As soon as we're both inside the tunnel, the stones shift again, sealing the doorway behind us. She raises her wand and whispers "_Lumos_" and the tip of her wand ignites, lighting the passageway. I follow along behind her.

"Nina, how many of the people and objects in this school do you run deals like that with?"

"Hm? Well, people, only a few. You, Allen Marchena, Fred and George Weasley, David Pierce. Plenty of others who make one-time deals with me…only when they need something…small-timers, y'know. Thing is, people change their minds too often, and too many of them have some self-righteous moral crusade against me. The objects…most of the suits of armor, probably twelve or thirteen of the portraits, a cabinet, a couple of tapestries, three statues. And a couple of ghosts. They've all got their own motives, as long as I appeal to those motives they're quite agreeable." she rattles off, "I get a lot of good information from them. Plus the house-elves in the kitchens. They know the castle better than almost anyone else, and for them I don't even need to give them something in return, I just gotta ask. That's where I learned about the Room of Requirement. I asked one of them where I could hide a ferret that nobody would know of or be able to find. She pointed me straight to the Room of Requirement. Very sweet, she was."

"You were hiding a _ferret?_"

"Yeah, last year. Charlize Davis had gotten one and managed to sneak it onto the train and into the school, but she knew they weren't allowed in the school, so she asked me to find somewhere to hide him for the year. Found the perfect place!" She grins. "Charlize didn't bring him back this year, but I got to keep her payment _and_ the room's location. Bloody good deal, that was!"

I giggle, and Nina and I continue the walk down the winding passageway. Sometimes I wish I could be like her—she's very carefree, she doesn't worry about much other than how her next deal is going to turn out. I think back to our fifth year, when we had career advisory. After my meeting with Flitwick, I'd wandered out to the Postal Tree to see if I could catch up with Allen and Brett. While I was en route, my mind started wandering—thinking about all of the N.E.W.T.s that Flitwick had told me would be necessary for admission into the Auror program—and I didn't notice Nina sneaking up behind me. She'd suddenly leaped at me and grabbed me from behind, startling me enough that I jumped and screamed a little bit. When I realized it was just her, I was slightly angry. "Oh come on, El!" she'd laughed over my jumbled attempts to scold her. "What are you so uptight about? Career advisory say you're screwed for N.E.W.T.s? I'm not—like, I told Snape I wanted to work for Gringotts, but that's boring. I could just be a con artist. No N.E.W.T.s required there!"

"Hey. El. Look alive, we're almost there."

Nina's voice snaps me back to the present, where we are approaching a dead end. She quickly pulls a piece of parchment out of her pocket and checks it, then stashes it again. She grins and points her wand at the low ceiling. "It's showtime." She taps an oddly-colored brick on the ceiling, and it expands into a trapdoor. She looks back at me. "A little boost here?"

I nod and lace my fingers together, providing a foothold for her. She nods her thanks before stepping up and shoving the trapdoor open with her shoulder. Once she's pulled herself up, she reaches down to offer me a hand. I grab her hand with one of mine and the ledge with the other, and with her help I pull myself up. And suddenly we are standing in the middle of Filch's office.

I chuckle nervously—just as he's said, he still keeps the chains in his office, and they are as shiny and fresh as if they never went out of use. Nina is already at work, scattering the itching powder so that it showers down upon him when he opens the door, so that it puffs up when he sits, so that it coats the grip of his cane. While she works, I glance at his desk and notice something odd.

"Hey, Nina. Look at this."

She stops for a moment and comes over to look at his desk. "What's this?"

"Look at these books and papers. Self-help books for Squibs. Mail-orders for miracle cures that make even Squibs able to perform magic—proper bull if I ever saw it, but beside my point. All of this stuff…Filch is a _Squib._"

Nina sits there for a moment, frozen to the spot. Then she bursts into laughter. "Well then! That explains a thing or two! Why he's such an obnoxious prick, for starters! Must be hard being the only Squib in a school full of witches and wizards!"

And I'm laughing too. "Sucks for him—no wonder he wants the chains brought back, that's the only thing that makes him remotely threatening! He probably doesn't even have a wand!"

Nina is still sniggering as she taps the oddly-colored brick on the floor to make the trapdoor reappear. "C'mon, we better clear out before he comes around. I'd hate to get caught with this, even if it would mean that I'd get to watch it all unfold." She drops down through it and beckons me to follow. I drop down behind her, stumbling a bit as I land, and close the trapdoor behind me. It shrinks back into a brick with a funny light brown color. She checks the parchment again and laughs in relief. "I think we're clear. Just gotta wait now…he'll be burning all his clothes off to try to stop the itching!"

I try to catch a glimpse of what's written on the page, but she stuffs it out of sight before I can catch it. She shakes her finger at me. "That's not for your eyes, Ellie. If you want to gain access, well, we can negotiate something, but for now, it's for my eyes only."

I roll my eyes. "Whatever."

When we reach the end of the passageway, she knocks on the bricks, then crinkles the wrapper of a Fizzing Whizbee in her pocket. The bricks shift and reposition themselves to reveal the mouth of the passageway, and the suit of armor stands in our path, his helmet lowered and his visor raised. Nina sighs in exasperation. "Yes, yes." She unwraps the Fizzing Whizbee and drops it in through the gap in the helmet left by the raised visor. "Enjoy." The suit of armor straightens up , salutes her, and allows us to pass. Once we've exited the passageway, the bricks shift to cover the opening of the tunnel again. The suit of armor nods and then steps back into place as if nothing ever happened.

I check my watch. "I've got to go…my dad asked me to do something for him before class, so I should get going now. Enjoy the kitchens, though. Bring me a couple of cream puffs if you get the chance."

Nina laughs and pulls a couple of them, wrapped in wax paper, out of her pocket. "Trick _and_ treat, Elia. I already went. Like hell I'd allow you to know where it was for free." She grins at me then skips off down the corridor, the swarms of miniature bats around her hair clips screeching and speeding their flight to keep up.

* * *

I arrive at the doorway of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom about ten minutes early. Professor Quirrell is standing up at the blackboard. His hand is shaking as he bewitches the chalk to write on the board. Each squeal of chalk on chalkboard seems to intensify his trembling.

I step into the classroom. "Um, Professor…"

He jumps at the sound of my voice, although I'd thought I was speaking quietly. The chalk drops to the floor and cracks into three pieces. He turns slowly. "Oh! Y-You're a lit-little early, M-M-Miss…" He trails off, seemingly unable to recall my name.

"Shacklebolt. My name is Elia Shacklebolt." I remind him gently. "I believe you know my father…Kingsley Shacklebolt, works for the Ministry of Magic?"

He stares blankly at me for a moment, then lets out a small gasp. "Ah! Yes, Kingsley! A…a very g-g-good man, y-your father…"

I nod. "That he is. He asked me to send you his regards, said he hopes this year finds you well." I pause. "He had plenty of good things to say about you, too."

He lets out a nervous laugh. "Very k-k-kind of him. H-He always was." Pause. "Y-You don't look very much like him…"

"I take after my mother. He's always said it." The moment I say that, I feel the weight of my own words, slamming into me like a pile of bricks. _I take after my mother. He's always said it._

Images of Azkaban flash through my mind.

Professor Quirrell smiles nervously. "Y-Yes, I see th-th-that. You do in-indeed t-t-take after her, m-m-more than him."

I feel the muscles in my jaw tighten. Still, I force myself to smile, reminding myself of what Dad's said about respect. "I have his skill, and her looks. That's what everyone has always said." Worried I can't maintain this facial contortion much longer, I judge that it's a good time to change the subject. "Looking forward to today's lesson, Professor."

He gives me a twitchy smile and turns back to the board, coughing a little bit. I take my seat and he coughs again, but much more heavily. Suddenly he is doubled over, coughing and hacking. At this point I begin to worry. I fill the cup on his desk with water and rush it over to him. "Professor, are you alright?" I hand him the cup as he slowly straightens up. He moves his hand from his mouth and accepts the water gratefully. I catch a glimpse of his palm and have to stop myself from crying out in shock.

The palm of his hand is splattered with mucus and blood.

I turn to him. "Professor, you've got to go to Madame Pomfrey! This doesn't look good at all—you might be really sick!"

He looks at me, his face pale and sweaty. "Y-Yes, Miss Sh-Sh-Shacklebolt, th-the assignments were…were what I was writing on the board, I w-was just going down to see Madame P-P-Pomfrey…I-I seem to be a bit ill."

I glance at the board. "I'll pass word on to the class. You should go."

He smiles gratefully at me. At that moment I look up and notice Professor Snape standing in the doorway, eying the scene curiously. I approach him. "Professor Snape, sir, it seems like Professor Quirrell is sick…can you help him to the Hospital Wing? Make sure he gets there alright? This doesn't look good at all."

Professor Snape furrows his brow. Is it just me, or are his eyes towards Quirrell oddly cold—bordering on _aggressive_? I see a gleam of something dangerous in Snape's eye, and I shudder. But it is just there for a moment, and then it is gone—perhaps I just imagined it? There is a long space of silence before Snape speaks: "Yes, Miss Shacklebolt…I'll see to it Professor Quirrell makes it safely to Madame Pomfrey. You may leave, since it seems we will not be having Defense Against the Dark Arts this afternoon."

I nod, unsure of what to say. The feeling I get is similar to the feeling I got a few years ago when I walked into an empty classroom and caught Tonks kissing a seventh-year Gryffindor a few years back, that awkward feeling that I just witnessed something I shouldn't have. At the time that I caught Tonks and the older boy, I stood there in shock for a moment before turning around, leaving the room, closing the door behind me, and promptly deciding to never mention what I saw. In this case I'm not sure what to do.

"Thank you, Professor Snape." I squeeze out. "Professor Quirrell, I hope you feel better soon." Then I turn and hurry from the room.

After rounding the first corner, I break into a run. I don't stop running until I've left the castle and I'm standing under the Postal Tree. There, I finally dare to slow down. I come to a halt and lean against the tree's trunk, gasping for breath. I'm out of shape. I need to run more often. At this rate I wouldn't even be able to outrun Filch properly.

Neither Allen nor Brett is present. Of course not—they're both in class. Nina is off somewhere, probably filching stuff from the kitchens before the start of the feast this evening. Under the tree it is just myself and my thoughts. I pull out a parchment and quill, and pause, unsure whether to write a note for Allen, a note for Brett, or a letter to my dad. In the end it is not a letter to anyone that finds its way onto the page. It's the lines spoken by the little-girl-voice and Death in my vision early this morning.

_Darkness was great, but love was greater  
Darkness has fallen and Night will chase  
Night will fall and Hell will rise  
And from Night born Hell will bring Darkness his fate  
Night wrapped in shackles  
Darkness shrouded in Death  
She born of Night, and named of Hell  
Will bring the marked ones' prophecy to face  
A Lord, a Lieutenant, a Trinity of Evil  
The choice on the last,  
Fifteen years made  
But never her own_

The lines come back to me with unusual clarity. They feel familiar to me somehow, as if the voice was my own, and I'd spoken those lines a million times before. I read them again and again. But no matter how hard I try, I cannot for the life of me figure out where I might have heard them before, or what they might mean.

* * *

"Happy Halloween!" cheers Penny Clearwater, the newest female Prefect from Ravenclaw, as everyone sits down at their tables in the Great Hall. I make a face at her, thinking of what Nina would have to say about Penny's holiday spirit. She has worn a couple of clips shaped like Jack-o'-Lanterns in her long, curly hair. Nina would probably take her aside and lecture her about how she, Nina, is the only one who can wear such cheesy adornments and still look stylish rather than stupid. All "holiday spirit" at Hogwarts is somewhat odd to me. Only Nina actually gets excited about her styling for a particular holiday. For everyone else it's all about the food.

And the Halloween feast is something to crave. I glance across the hall and see Brett nearly salivating as he stares at the plates, waiting for the food to show up, over at the Hufflepuff table; at the Gryffindor table, Allen is talking animatedly with a dark-haired girl and glancing every few seconds up and down the table to make sure that he doesn't miss it when the feast begins; and Nina laughing as a couple of firecrackers go off from the seat of a burly seventh-year Slytherin's chair, causing him to yelp with fright. I smirk and give her the thumbs-up—for Nina it's always more about the tricks than the treats, since having access to the kitchens, she can get treats whenever she damn well pleases. A quick glance at the staff tells me that Professor Quirrell isn't at the feast. Did Nina do something? Did she make a bet with someone else about Quirrell quitting, and then poison him to make sure of it? No—coughing up blood, that's not something that she'd inflict on him. Her style of poison is "troublesome but ultimately harmless"—she doesn't like to do serious or lasting damage, it creates too much trouble for her. No, whatever's got Quirrell is something much more serious. He's very sick. Glancing at the ceiling, I silently hope that he's alright. He may be lacking as a teacher, but when I think about my dad, I know that my dad would be checking to make sure he were okay. _Focus on someone's positive qualities, _I hear his voice in my mind.

The food materializes, and everyone is just starting to dig in—

The door bursts open. Professor Quirrell staggers in. His face is white as a sheet, his turban is crooked, and his skin is damp with sweat—he is out of breath to the point that I can clearly tell he just sprinted a good long distance to get here. Everyone falls silent and listens in as he stumbles up to the High Table and says to Dumbledore, "Troll—in the dungeons—thought you ought to know—"

And then he faints dead away.

It takes a moment for that to sink in. _Troll? _Did I mishear him? But judging by the reactions that are rippling across the Great Hall, everyone heard the same thing as I did. Panic has struck the feast—many of the students are screaming, jumping up, preparing to run.

_Troll in the dungeons._

My mind is swimming with questions. Troll? How did it even get in here? Where is it now? Are we in danger? A third-year jumps up and rushes past me, but trips over the leg of my chair and falls flat on her face.

Suddenly there is a loud cracking sound. I turn to look as Dumbledore raises his wand again and sets off another series of bright purple firecrackers, trying to get everyone's attention. At last the screaming dies down enough for him to be heard: "Prefects, take the students back to your houses—we will finish the feasts in the common rooms. All teachers, come with me."

It is situations like this where I know why I was made a Prefect. Am I terrified? Yes. But in a crisis I am able to put my duty ahead of my feelings—and right now my duty is to make sure all of the Ravenclaw students get back to Ravenclaw tower safely. I stand and raise my wand, sending a shower of blue and bronze sparks. "All Ravenclaw students, follow me! Clearwater, bring up the rear, make sure nobody gets left behind! And the rest of you—Prefects—walk on either side of the group, make sure nobody gets lost!" I start towards the door, and all of the other Ravenclaws fall in line behind me. I keep a careful eye on the first-years as we make our way up the stairs and towards Ravenclaw tower.

In front of the entrance to the tower is the statue of Rowena Ravenclaw. She looks at us. "Password?"

"_Draconia_" I say quickly, and she moves aside, revealing the staircase behind her. I stop by the doorway and herd all of the students into the stairwell, counting to make sure everyone is there. Once my head count has confirmed that everyone is accounted for, I step into the staircase, and the statue resumes her position guarding the stairs.

In the common room, all of the students sit nervously, awaiting further information. I stand by the edge of the room, listening to the gentle hum of anxiety buzzing throughout the room.

Death sits on the mantle, hovering over us all.

As many questions as I'd vowed to ask him next time I had the chance, the first one that springs to my lips is: "Did you do this?"

He turns to face me. "If you are referring to the fully-grown mountain troll that is wandering the school, then no. I wish I could claim credit for it, but alas, I cannot." He pauses. "Oh, and I think I should warn you, child, in case you thought to defy me: I am not a teacher who can be reasoned with. I am not a friend from whom you can elicit sympathy. I am not a man at all…I am a force of nature. Trifle with me at your own risk, for if you should breach our contract, I should come up with the most creative of punishments for you. I'm thinking that, if the weeks of pain and delirium don't discourage you enough, I might need to take a further measure." He grins at me. I fight to maintain my composure. "You've been warned, Elia." And then, just like that, he is gone.


	4. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four  
**_Elia_

Although Allen and I haven't officially agreed to meet in the Room of Requirement the day after Halloween, I make my way down there at 4am, fairly certain that he'll be there waiting for me. I arrive and see immediately that I am correct. "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" he jokes as I seat myself on the table, and I smirk at him.

"All that glisters is not gold." I stick my tongue out at him, and he laughs. His laugh is loud, harsh, and sudden, like a firework tossed into a silent room—it has a way of startling people, no matter how many times they've heard it. I, as always, jump when I hear it—but then I laugh too, both at my own joke and at how ridiculous I feel, startled every time I hear my best friend laugh.

"Right, right. Sometimes it's Felix Felicis! Think you could brew up some of that, some time?"

"Not for free—that stuff is better than gold, my friend." I punch him on the arm affectionately. He mockingly stumbles several steps, laughing again.

We joke around for a few more minutes before he asks the question that I know he's been thinking of this whole time: "I guess you and I both had the same thought about coming here, eh?"

"Yeah. I was thinking about the troll last night. How do you suppose it even got into the school? Aren't they really, really stupid?" I glance at him.

He shrugs and leans back against the table, blowing his too-long bangs out of his face. "Damned if I know. No way it could be an accident, though." He pauses. "You heard how they rounded it up?"

"That bit didn't reach me. Care to share?" I lean in attentively.

"Yeah, yeah…" He reaches up and tries to scrape his bangs out of his face. They've fallen back over his eyes again within two seconds. He growls his frustration before starting to talk. "Well, apparently some first-year girl from my house, thought she was clever enough to take on the troll on her own, snuck off and went looking for it."

I roll my eyes. "You're sure, now…that Gryffindor is the house of the brave…and not the suicidal?"

He fakes a punch in my direction. "Just shut up. I'm not responsible for the mental ones in Gryffindor, I speak for myself!" he scolds me before clearing his throat and continuing. "Well, apparently she was a friend of Harry Potter's. So he and some other first year went running after her, trying to stop her…and he wound up saving her ass by knocking out the troll with its own club."

I stare at him blankly. Then I burst out laughing. "That's a proper tall tale if I ever heard one!" I gasp around my laughter, "Don't tell me you believe that! A couple of first years take on a troll on their own, pah! I know Harry Potter survived against you-know-who, but he's still just a first-year student, an eleven-year-old kid—he's not a friggin' god!"

He rolls his eyes. "I heard it from Prudey, if that means anything."

"And the Weasel-Prude heard it from who, exactly?" I'm still laughing at this point. "It's bull if you ask me—some teachers probably caught them, and whoever that first year was didn't want to look stupid so she made it up."

He rolls his eyes. "Say what you want. Potter isn't just some first-year, he's Gryffindor's new seeker, I'm telling you—" He suddenly slaps his hand over his mouth. But I heard him.

"What? Harry's the new seeker? First-years aren't even allowed to try out for the team. How does that happen?" I grin slyly at him.

He stares determinedly at the wall.

"Alright, don't talk. But tell ya what, let Ollie Wood know that I'm open for negotiation, he should make me an offer before Nina does."

Allen looks like he just bit into a vomit-flavored bean from a bag of Bertie Bott's. He stares at me incredulously. "Nina's been a bad influence on you." he sighs at last.

"I'm kidding, Allen." I nudge him. He laughs again, and I almost fall off of the table.

"That's a relief! I was about to say, 'Is this really Elia, or has Nina somehow gotten ahold of some Polyjuice Potion?'" He shakes his head. "You win this one. _Touché._"

I giggle, attempting to regain my composure. When will I get used to his laugh? Six years as his friend and I still jump every time. Once I've gotten my composure back, I prop my chin in my hands and ask my newest question: "So seriously? Potter is the new seeker?"

"Yeah, Fred Weasley said something about an incident during the first flying lesson, didn't go into detail. But apparently he's really something on the Qudditch field…a real natural, they're saying."

I nod. "Better not let Nina find out…she'll pull the same thing she pulled on you, with some other poor clueless soul…and she'll go down in history as the girl who poisoned the boy who lived."

He snorts. "And most of the other members of the Quidditch team, at some point or another."

We end up sitting around in the Room of Requirement, just hanging out together, for the next couple of hours. It feels like it's been forever since we just kicked back and had fun like this. Life has been moving far too quickly lately, and it seems like between making illegal potions in secret, keeping up with the curriculum in our N.E.W.T.-level classes, and the chaotic start our year has gotten off to, we haven't had much time for just enjoying ourselves. Allen and I haven't gotten to spend time together like we used to, and our friendship has started to feel less fun and more business-like—and I've missed the fun we used to have together.

Allen is in the middle of a joke about two goblins, a Muggle, and a clumsy Dark Wizard in the Leaky Cauldron when he checks his watch and breaks off. "Hey, breakfast's gonna start in a few minutes. We should head down to the Great Hall." He pauses. "Don't…tell Nina about Harry Potter being the new seeker…please?"

I nod. "You can count on me." The first Quidditch match of the season—Gryffindor vs. Slytherin—is coming up soon enough. Whatever she doesn't know she'll find out when he steps onto the field. But I'll keep it quiet, both out of respect for Allen's wishes and out of a secret desire I carry to see Slytherin lose. I'd kind of like to see Nina's face when Slytherin gets clobbered, too.

Allen sighs with relief. "Good! You won't tell the Ravenclaw team either, right?"

"I won't. Not that it'll make a difference." I laugh. "First match is Gryffindor against Slytherin. Whatever advantage you've got from keeping it secret will be long gone by the time Gryffindor vs. Ravenclaw rolls around. The thing is, it's the last match of he season, so we've got time to prepare." I lower my voice. "Wish you guys luck. And tell the team that your Ravenclaw pal is rooting for them."

He smirks. "You're as eager as I am to see Slytherin go down, then?"

"Gryffindor hates Slytherin. Ravenclaw hates Slytherin. Hufflepuff hates Slytherin. Hell, even Slytherin hates Slytherin—in Nina Javeris's case, at least." I put on a high-pitched, obnoxious voice to imitate Nina. "_Like, oh my god, can someone please just kill all the Slytherins that aren't me? They're conceited, vain, self-centered bastards! Can someone poison the food that goes to Slytherin one night, and warn me so I won't eat it? I'd do it myself but if they saw me not at the table no one would touch the food, everyone knows how much I love poisoning people I hate!_" I brace myself, preparing for Allen's laugh. It still causes me to jump—it's louder than usual, if that's even possible. Next thing I know, he's doubled over, howling with laughter, and has to grab my shoulder so as not to hit the floor. He finally regains control over himself and straightens up, wiping tears from his eyes. "Alright." he grins, "I'll pass it on to Ollie. He'll let the team know."

"Thanks."

He smiles and wraps his arm around my shoulder. "Alright, then. Come on, let's head to breakfast."

He moves to start for the door, but I put my arm out in front of him. "Wait. There's something I wanted to talk to you about. A couple of things, really."

He frowns and lets his arm drop. "Alright…" He leans against the door and faces me. "What's up?"

"A few things." I have to stop for a moment to figure out which one to address first. "Well, first…I wanted to tell you…I am going to stop taking the Evigilo Mors. I don't know how I'll do it, or where I'll stay while it runs its course…but we can figure that out. I am going to stop. Will you help me?"

He stares at me blankly for a moment, as if trying to process what I said. Then his face splits into a broad grin. He swoops over to me and grabs me, hugging me so enthusiastically that he doesn't even seem to realize my muffled protests as he lifts me right off my feet. "Of _course _I'll help you!" he shouts in excitement. "I was so worried you weren't going to…of course I'll help you. Whatever you need, you can count on me."

"Great, Allen…please put me down?" I gasp.

"What? Oh!" He releases me and stumbles back, looking embarrassed. "Sorry about that, El, I get a bit, you know…"

I raise my hand. "Your excitement gets the best of you, and you forget to slow down. I know." I pause. "But there's something else…"

He nods. "I'm listening."

"Help me find out who my mother really was." I'm surprised by how firm my voice sounds when I speak. Inside I am shaking. But on the outside I am hard as stone, determined, ready to face whatever may come. "I didn't want to look for it, at first. But if I don't know the truth, I'll just keep being scared. I'll keep speculating forever. If I don't know, in a way, it's worse than finding out that the truth is something horrible."

He stares at me, every trace of smile vanished from his face. His expression is solemn, worry tinged with wonder. And when he speaks, his voice is low, his words slower than they normally come. "You're sure, Elia…that's what you want?"

"Only if I'm not alone in it. And I know I can trust you to help me." I look him dead in the eye, fighting to keep the tremor out of my voice.

He surveys me silently for a moment before responding. "Alright. I'll help you find the truth. I promise."

Relief tugs the corners of my mouth into a smile. "Thank you."

He smiles. "What are friends for?"

We stand there in silence for a moment, smiling, before he speaks again. "You know, I think that Brett and Nina might be a good help in this one, too. If anyone will understand what you hope to accomplish it's Brett—we all know he loves truthfulness. Sometimes a little too much. But in all seriousness, his family works for the Ministry, he knows how to search their records and such. He could probably be a big help with this. And Nina…she's got the kinds of skills that I think could be really helpful in discovering something that others are trying to hide. Digging up secrets and then auctioning them off is her hobby, y'know?"

I chuckle. He's right. But…"How do I even explain this to them?"

"Well…" He grins slyly. "Do they need an honest, in-depth explanation? Or do they just need to know what you want from them, and why they should do what you want?"

I roll my eyes and smile. "That's true. I can tell Brett that I never got to meet her and want to know more about her, since she's my mom and everything. And Nina will do anything for the right price."

"Right. So…" He stretches and yawns. "Shall we be off to breakfast? You can probably take it up with them later today. Meet me here at midnight and tell me how it went. Need a comfortable place to hang out and talk and not be caught or overheard, alright?"

"Alright." I smile. "Let's go."

* * *

I approach Brett later that day. He's on his way to the Quidditch field for practice—being one of the Hufflepuff team's Chasers—and seems a bit distracted. He's muttering under his breath, something about flight formations and underhand passes, and is visibly startled when I say his name. Once he's recovered himself, he smiles. "Hi El. What's up?"

"I wanted to ask you a favor." I begin, "Don't have to do it now, I see you're on your way to the field, but I would appreciate if you could take me up sometime soon."

"Tell me what it is, if you can walk and talk at the same time. I'm going to be late." He picks up his pace, and I hurry to keep up.

"Alright. So, you know my mother died giving birth to me, right?" I say.

He nods, only half-listening. "Yeah, yeah. I do."

"Well, I never got to meet her, never knew much about her, never even saw a picture of her really…I was wondering if you could help me find out more about her. You know, since I never got to meet her and all?"

"What do you want me to do?"

"I know your family does record-keeping for the Ministry of Magic." I am very careful in my choice of words. "If you could pull a few strings and help me get access to her file, that'd give me a good place to start."

He nods. "We can talk more later. I've gotta get to practice, there's a lot of training to do before our first match in a couple of weeks. Playing against Slytherin, you know how that is. And we've all been given leaflets on how to avoid being poisoned by Javeris before the game. She's always pulling something, that bitch." His speech is even faster than his stride. I'm barely able to understand what he's saying. At that moment we reach the Quidditch field. He yells back over his shoulder, "But we will talk later, I promise! I'll do what I can!" and promptly disappears into the locker rooms.

I smile. Brett doesn't like lying, so if he's promising that he'll help me, he's going to do it. He won't back down. He never breaks his word.

As I start walking back to the castle, I feel relieved that I'll have Brett's help. But at the same time, I feel nervous. What can I offer Nina that she'll be willing to help me for? Do her charms homework? No, for something this big, she'll want more than a one-time favor. I'd need to do her homework for a year, or…

I stop dead in my tracks. It hits me at that one moment. I know exactly what I need to offer her.

I want the truth, and so does she. I'll offer her one truth in exchange for another.

It's risky, definitely. If Nina were offered a good price by someone else, there's a fair chance she'd let the cat out of the bag.

But I'm going to gamble on this one.

* * *

After dinner I follow Nina out of the Great Hall. She appears to be on her way down to the grounds when I catch up to her. "Hey, Nina! Come with me, gotta show you something."

She turns to look at me and grins mischievously. In the wake of Halloween, her hair is bubblegum-pink, and her purple lipstick and glasses chain are back. "I dunno, Elia…" She crosses her arms as she turns to face me. "What's in it for me?"

I lean in to whisper in her ear. "We're gonna have to go to the Room of Requirement, we need a safe place to talk without being overheard. As for the answer to your question…" I pause for dramatic effect. "I'll give you the full truth about what Allen and I do in there. And I've got a job for you, if you do it I'll give you the recipe to the invisibility potion up-front and the recipe to the Polyjuice Potion if you get something good off of it. Trust me, this is a good investment."

Her turquoise penciled-in eyebrows disappear into her bangs. "Color me intrigued now. You've got a deal. Let's go."

We've made two rounds in front of the room when she stops. "Out of curiosity. Why are you offering me the truth about you and Allen? You know I sell secrets."

"Well, you'll be the only one who knows other than him. If someone finds out I'll know it was you. And there's too much at stake here for you to sell me out. It's not in your best interest to betray me when you've got the use of the Polyjuice potion and all future payments from me on the line." I grin. "You may be selfish, deceitful and conniving, but you're not stupid. I know for a fact that you're smart enough to keep your mouth shut."

She smirks. "You know me well, Elia. And don't look down on those of us who put benefit before honor. We tend to reap the finer things in life, more so than those who try to look out for those on the bottom."

"We'll see about that." I sneer. And with that, we make our final pass. The door materializes, and we both enter quickly.

The room looks the same way it did when Allen and I met in here, when he confronted me with his worries about me. The couch in the middle of the room, the walls lined with Dark Detectors. The Sneakoscope starts blaring the moment Nina crosses the threshold into the room. She glares at it. "Oh, shut up, you." she says, "Elia knows how I am. Don't start sounding the alarm, she's well aware of it without your help."

I roll my eyes. "Move over." I tell her and whip out my wand, pointing it at the Sneakoscope. "_Silencio!_" I say, and the Sneakoscope continues to spin and flash red, but in mute. I grin at her. "What's the story?" I nudge her in the ribs with my elbow. "Your presence alone sent that thing into a frenzy, meaning you're planning something. And since we're the only ones here, someone told you to do something to me I'm assuming?"

She sighs. "Shield charm on the count of three." she says, "Then I can at least tell Scott I tried."

I grin. Daniel Scott is a Slytherin fourth-year who earned a detention from me a few weeks ago when I caught him trying to do graffiti on one of the school's portraits, a painting of a fat lady dressed all in pink. Of course, he's the type who would try to get even with me by paying Nina off to hex me. "Alright." I draw my wand. "Thanks."

"Three…two…one!"

I scream "_Protegro!_" at the exact moment she screams "_Titliandus!_" The hex comes flying at me, but hits the shield and goes no further. We lower our wands and I shake my head. "The tickling hex? Seriously? Is that really the best you can do?"

She scoffs. "His call, not mine. That kid has no imagination."

"Do I need to pay anything to have you put an acne-producing potion in his food?"

"No, it's my pleasure. Just supply the potion, and the recipe." She grins and twirls her wand. "He's annoying, and he underpays me, too. I'll plant it for free."

The Sneakoscope has fallen still.

I grin. "Well, now that we've gotten that out of the way. What we came in here to talk about."

She nods, storing her wand, and shoots a glance around the room. "Comfy place, here. Is this what it looks like when you and Allen are in here?"

I shrug. "About one time out of three, when we're just in here to talk. I think you'll be more interested in what we do the other two-thirds of the time, though."

"Is that so?" Nina raises her eyebrows. "What's it like then? Big, fluffy bed? Mini-bar in the corner? Jacuzzi by the door?"

I groan and shake my head. "Come off it, Nina. Allen and I, we're just friends. No matter how much you fantasize about it, that's not what's going on."

She snorts, plopping down on the couch and pulling a case out of her pocket. "Suit yourself. Mind if I smoke? I'm rather a fiend for a Marlboro right now."

"A _what_, excuse me?"

She grins and shows me what's in the case—a neat row of cigarettes and a silver lighter encrusted with rhinestones. "Normally, I'd think wizards do everything better." she explains as she picks up a cigarette and pops it between her lips. "But Muggles happen to have mastered the art of the perfect cigarette. A pipe doesn't cut it for me, unfortunately." She glances at me. "So you don't mind?"

"Go ahead." I roll my eyes. "I don't really care."

"Thanks." She flips the lighter open, and the cigarette flares to life. The rhinestones glitter as they catch the light from the glowing-orange tip of the cigarette. "So, go on. Tell me. What does it look like when you and Allen are here?"

I think for a moment about how to answer. I point to the farthest corner of the room. "Over there, there's a closet full of potions ingredients." I say, "Everything you can imagine…forget about the potions supply closet available to the students in the dungeons, literally everything you can imagine. And then over here…" I pause and gesture to the area where the couch is presently. "…is a work table. Lining two of the walls are shelves full of tools for making potions. Scales, mortars, pestles, measuring cups, knives, you name it. One wall has a bookshelf full of books, recipes for potions. And there…" I point to the corner opposite where the supply closet would normally be. "…is a cauldron and a fireplace. There's a couple of chairs by the table, too. And there's a box of cleaning supplies, too." I glance at her. "Any guesses about what we do in here?"

She furrows her brow for a moment. Then she grins. "Well, obviously you're making some kind of potion. What _type_ of potion is it? That's my question."

I take a deep breath. "There's a forbidden potion called 'Evigilo Mors' that completely negates the user's need for sleep. But the problem is, once you start taking it, you can't really stop. Well, I guess, you can, but it'll hurt like crazy…for a long time." I pause. "That's what we've been doing here. Every few days, we come up here to make it. I'm the one who's using it."

She stares at me incredulously. "You should go up to Flitwick and give that Prefect's badge back…if you're telling the truth here, you deserve it about as much as I do." After a moment's silence, she grins. "That's friggin' _awesome_, Elia! You know how to make potions like that? Damn, I underestimated you—and here I was asking for silly favors like charms homework from you? I should've been asking for forbidden potions all this time!"

I laugh, somewhat relieved. By her reaction, I can tell there's no way in hell she's going to sell me out—not when she's got a goldmine of potions genius at her disposal, not in a million years. "Yeah, so. That's the story."

Her smile fades. "So, what's the price here?" she asks. "You wouldn't tell me this stuff for no reason."

I think for a moment about how to explain it. Then: "I need your help with something. I need information on a person, she's not at Hogwarts, but I figure if anyone's good at digging up secret information, it's you."

She chuckles, clearly pleased by this. "Alright! Simple enough. Who's the victim, and what do you want me to dig up?"

"My mother. Her name is Eliana Shacklebolt. And, what I want to know, is anything you can get your hands on."

She frowns, seemingly uncertain. "I dunno, Elia…" She speaks very slowly. "I know, normally, I take a job, no questions asked, no answers required, and just do it. But…this once, I'm gonna break that rule." She pauses. "I don't know why you need me for this, why you can't just ask your dad or anyone else in your family. This feels weird for me. I mean, if you can explain it, and the story's good enough, I'll do it. But…I don't want to get involved in something too sticky, and I get the feeling this might just be a bit more stickiness than I'm comfortable with."

I sigh. "I'd tell you, but it's crazy…and I'm really not sure if I should share it with you. Kinda not used to you acting like you have a conscience."

She groans. "You think all I see is numbers? Price, risk, benefit? Let me tell you something. I am human, even if I have more of an eye for business than human bonding. And whether or not it shows, I do have feelings. If you tell me this, for collateral, I'll tell you one of my secrets. And if I in any way mess shit up for you, it's your choice what you do with that information."

I stare at her. Is she_ serious?_ It is curiosity, more so than trust, that propels me to agree. "Alright."

She purses her lips and nods. "Okay, then. You can start, whenever you're ready."

I snort. "Fine." Then, I take a deep breath.

And speak.

"I guess I should start from the beginning. I never knew my mom. My dad raised me from day one. And it was always just me and him—never any other relatives. He told me since I was little that my mom died giving birth to me, and that's why I never met her. I always kinda went with it…but now that I think about it, how the hell is it plausible that a witch dies in childbirth?" I stop for a moment. How did I never see that? It's an obvious lie. And I never even questioned it. Why didn't I see it before?

Nina is blowing rings of smoke. "So that's it? You want to know because you want to know what really happened, since she clearly didn't die in childbirth?"

"Well…the full truth is more complicated than that." I blow a stray curl out of my face. "The night of the start-of-term banquet, I had this really weird dream. In it I was in Azkaban, in a cell with an older woman who looked a lot like me. She had my face, my hair, my hands. The biggest difference between me and her, besides age, was the color of her skin and her eyes. She had pale skin and brown eyes, not like me." Pause. "She said she was my mother, and that she's been waiting there for me for so long. It freaked me out, but I told myself it was just a dream. But then I had it again the next day…I was scared. She kept telling me I was the marked one, and it was my destiny to save her…I didn't know what to do…I prepared a dreamless sleep potion the next day…but the dream came back, again. And she said, 'You cannot run from me, I am your destiny. I will follow you as far as I need to. But I won't stop.' I couldn't believe it. I needed something else…it wouldn't go away even with the dreamless sleep potion…which meant it wasn't really a dream. It meant something more. That's what I was most terrified of. I had to stop myself from sleeping, somehow. I couldn't face it." I draw a deep, shaky breath. "I'm on good terms with Professor Snape. Because I'm so good at potion-making, see. So…I asked him if he could write me a note for access to the book _Most Potente Potions_ in the library's restricted section, if I could get some extra credit for choosing a few poisons out of there and coming up with antidotes. He agreed and wrote the note for me. I was looking for a potion that could negate the need for sleep, and I found it. Evigilo Mors. There was a warning on the page with it…'Drink not of the Evigilo Mors unless you wish to see the rise of Death, and cease not to drink Evigilo Mors unless you ready to face your own limits of pain.' I thought that the 'rise of Death' thing was just meant to scare off potential users, because we all know that no magic can raise the dead, and to my way of thinking the only thing I was afraid of was those visions. I wasn't afraid of pain. I ripped the page out and went to the Room of Requirement right away. I made my first batch that same day.

"A few days later I was drinking a bottle of it and Allen caught me. He was worried, of course…I finally managed to convince him to start helping me make it, if he was so worried for my safety. I told him it was a potion that prevented the user from ever needing to sleep. I didn't tell him, at first, why I was taking it. I didn't tell him at all until a couple of weeks ago. But since then I've started having visions of Azkaban, while I'm awake. They just suddenly hit me. It's scary…my mom, she was telling the truth…no matter what I do, she'll keep finding ways to come after me. I can't escape it. So I need to know the truth. Whatever it is, it seems like I'm facing it one way or another, so I need to know…then at least I can prepare for whatever horrible shit I gotta face." I pause. "Nina, this is the longest I've ever heard you keep your mouth shut. Even in class you can't go this long."

Indeed, she hasn't even moved to speak this whole time—she's been staring at me intently the entire time I've been speaking. She sits frozen to the spot for a few seconds after I finish. Then, at last, she nods slowly and speaks. "I gotcha." Pause. "Well, then…you've got a deal. This is even crazier than I thought, but you've got me interested. I'll do what I can. Invisibility Potion and Polyjuice Potion in one deal? Whatever shit this gets me into I can totally just disappear right away!"

I chuckle. "Alright then."

She grins, but moments later, a serious look has spread across her face. "So I guess now it's time for my collateral. Elia, do you know what the criteria for each of the four houses is? How our house is chosen?"

I frown. It's an odd question, and not what I expected. "Well, Gryffindor gets the bravest people, right? And then Ravenclaw gets the smartest ones. Slytherin gets the purebloods, And Hufflepuff gets…the rest?"

"That's what they say, isn't it?" She examines her fingernails. "Well, you're half-right on two of them, but on the other two you're so far off that it's hard to believe you're in Ravenclaw. Yes, each house has a defining trait. Gryffindor's trait is bravery, and Ravenclaw's is intelligence—you had those two kinda right. Hufflepuff's defining trait is loyalty—get it straight, Elia, they aren't the friggin' leftovers, the trait is loyalty. And Slytherin's trait…it isn't pureblood lineage, it's ambition.

"But even that is a gross oversimplification, right? What about people who are brave, and smart, and loyal, and ambitious? I daresay there's nobody who has just one of those traits. You said it yourself, I'm not just ambitious, I'm also smart. And you, you aren't just smart, you're also loyal and fairly ambitious. Your buddy Allen is brave, smart, and loyal. The Weasley twins I'd wager have some compatibility with all four. And Tonks, at the very least, would be clever in addition to loyal—you saw how many N.E.W.T.s she took, she was very bright, although her hands didn't show it, she was extremely bright. Hardly anyone has just one of those traits. So, how does the Sorting Hat decide which house we go into?

"The answer to that is, it decides based on which trait weighs most heavily into our decisions when there's a lot at stake. Like when you-know-who was at full power. Those from Gryffindor would be at the forefront of the opposition—they knew he was evil and wouldn't lie down for him, it was important to them to do what was right, no matter what it cost them. Those from Hufflepuff would be the majority of those who just lay low and tried to stay off his radar—because for the Hufflepuff, the well-being of their friends and family would come above all else. Many Slytherins saw his power as a means to their own ends, and joined him—which is why there's so many former Death Eaters who were from Slytherin. Ravenclaws would be divided—since they base their decisions in the smartest option, they could wind up anywhere, since each would draw a different conclusion about where it was best to be. Do you see what I mean here? Gryffindors based their decisions in their bravery. Hufflepuffs based their decisions in their loyalty. Slytherins based their decisions in their ambition. And Ravenclaws based their decisions in their intelligence. The defining trait isn't whichever one you have, or even whichever one is most prominent as seen by others—the defining trait is the one which weighs most heavily into your decisions. So, I'm a Slytherin because I have one ambition in life." She pauses. I can tell she's about to drop the bomb, and try to prepare myself. But when she does drop it, nothing could have prepared me.

"I'm not a pureblood, Elia. I'm a half-blood. Nobody else at Hogwarts knows it. My father had an affair with a muggle-born witch. I'm her daughter. I'm half-blood." Pause. "My father's uncle, Lawrence, was a Death-Eater. He hated muggle-born witches and wizards, wanted to kill them all. I will never forget the night when I was three years old, my father was taking me to my mother's house…we saw the Dark Mark over her house, and my father's face went pale. He ran into the house screaming for her. And she was dead on the kitchen floor. I saw her lying there staring into nothingness. It was my uncle, Lawrence Javeris, who killed her. He hated her, hated that my father had fallen in love with her…he told my father, 'If you try to marry that mudblood, your wedding day will be her funeral.' So he didn't marry her. But I still came along. My father told everyone that my mother was Aralyn Malfoy, she died a few weeks after I was born so nobody could ask her, and since he'd been friends with her some were none the wiser. But my uncle knew, because he could see it…" She laughs bitterly. "I have my mother's eyes. My father's smile, but my mother's eyes. He knew that I was not the daughter of Aralyn Malfoy, no matter what my father said—he knew where I really came from.

"Well, Lawrence wound up in Azkaban. And he's still there, alive. And I'm still here, with my ambition. My ambition is to kill him. To make him pay for what he did. I will do whatever I must in order to get there. I don't care who I have to step on, who else dies along the way, if I get shoved in Azkaban forever, even if I die in the process—as long as he dies by my hand. That's why I'm a Slytherin. It's not because I'm a pureblood, and don't you dare ever say that it is. It's because everything I do has that one goal in the end. I will kill him. Nothing else matters."

Nina's face isn't bright and mischievous, as it usually is. It is cold and hard as steel. And I am too stunned by her admission to react—to say anything, to feel anything, to even _move_. My very body is numb, trying to absorb this secret of Nina's. I finally manage to squeeze out a quiet, "Oh."

Her eyes are somewhere far off. But a moment later, I see them sparkling again. All at once, the cheeky grin is back in place, and she's re-lighting the cigarette which must have died out while we were talking. "So, about that invisibility potion. Gonna give me the recipe, or what?"

I laugh. The laugh is somewhat forced—too high, too loud, too harsh to be natural—but it's a start. "Right, right. I've got it right here. I was almost hoping that the truth would be enough to make you forget about it, but…"

She blows a puff of smoke in my face. "Can I sell the truth to plucky first- and second-years for five galleons a bottle? No, I can't. Hand it over."

I feign exasperation as I hand the scroll with the recipe on it, but it's really almost a relief to have the Nina I know back. The Nina whose only real concern is what's going to get her a few galleons, what she's going to sell next, and how to reap the largest profit, not the Nina who is dead set on the idea of killing her uncle, the Nina who never got over her mother's death, the Nina who is much deeper than I ever realized.

* * *

Midnight brings me back, once again, to the Room of Requirement. The room looks the same as it did earlier when I was talking to Nina in here, except the Sneakoscope is still, there is no smoke in the air, and it's Allen, rather than Nina, who is sitting on the couch. He smiles. "Hell is empty and all the devils are here," he greets me.

"Better a witty fool than a foolish wit." I reply, raising my eyebrow at him. "Haven't been waiting long for me, have you?"

He laughs—I disguise my startled jolt by pretending to check the lock on the door—and moves over to make room for me on the couch. "Not yet. But we'll see how quickly you get over here."

I snort and slide onto the couch next to him. "I spoke to Brett and Nina." I begin once I'm seated comfortably. "Brett agreed to pull a few strings and get my mom's file from the Ministry's record-keepers. And Nina's been enlisted as well."

"At what price?"

"The recipe for the Invisibility Potion upfront, and the Polyjuice Potion if she pulls up anything good." I smile. "Oh, and the knowledge that our clothes stay on in this room."

He frowns. "What?"

"Well, she knows we come in here together from time to time. I don't know how she knows it! She says nobody tipped her off, she's the only one who knows…I don't know how but I kinda feel like I don't want to know." I pause. "I just told her we're making potions in here. Not…hooking up or any shit like that. She's not gonna spill what we're doing here when her benefit—any potions she might get from me in the future—is riding on it." I omit the fact that I told Nina a lot more than that, too. I get the gut feeling that telling him just how much Nina Javeris now knows would only be counterproductive.

He looks confused. "How the hell would she know about that?"

"I don't know—maybe one of the suits of armor saw us, according to her she's got deals with quite a few of them." I speculate. "But she hasn't told anyone we come in here, so I guess we're safe for now."

"Yeah, for now." he scoffs. "I trust Nina insofar as I know she doesn't mess up people's lives for fun, but if someone offered her payment for dirt on either of us, you know, there's that."

I am very glad, now, that I didn't tell him everything I've told her. I know she won't spill our secret, not with her own secret at stake. But I can't tell Allen that. "Well, only time will tell, right? End of the day, she's agreed to help us, and so has Brett. That's the big thing now."

He looks unsure for a moment, then sighs and nods. "You're right. I guess we'll just have to trust her this time."

I shrug. "So, that's out of the way. You wanna head out? We'll meet here to make more Evigilo Mors in a couple of days. We'll discuss the whole 'stopping' thing at a later date."

He snaps around and grabs my arm. "Wait." he says, and his voice—as well as his sudden movement—catches me off-guard. He looks a bit startled by his own haste as well. He pauses for a moment to recover himself before speaking. "Let's not go yet. I mean, what's the rush? No one's gonna find us here."

"Yeah, but you've got class tomorrow morning." I remind him gently. "I'll be awake regardless, but you? You need to sleep."

He thinks this over for a moment, then sighs. "You're right. I should get going." He pauses. "But, wanted to ask…the first Quidditch match of the season is coming up. Since we're not going to be on opposing teams, do you want to sit with me? We can 'boo' Slytherin together."

I grin. "Sure. I'll even cheer on Gryffindor a bit. And I'll bring my binoculars, too." Pause. "We'll work out some way to share them."

He smiles. "Alright. Brett might tag along, too, but since he's on the Hufflepuff team and his first match of the season will be against Gryffindor, I doubt we'll see the same kind of enthusiasm from him about cheering on Gryffindor."

I shrug. "Come whatever may, right?"

* * *

The morning of the Gryffindor vs. Slytherin Quidditch match dawns bright and clear. At breakfast, I see Oliver Wood reminding Gryffindor's three Chasers to check their food carefully before they eat it and be suspicious of any random gifts of food arriving from home. I smirk. _Oh, Nina. You have quite a reputation. _I muse as I bite into a piece of buttered toast.

Indeed, over at the Slytherin table, I see the Slytherin team guarding their food carefully. One of the chasers, who appears to have received a parcel from home, is regarding the package suspiciously. Nina is ignoring them—her attention seems to be on Daniel Scott, who is digging into a bowl of oatmeal. I can tell from the delight on her face that by the end of the day, Daniel's face will be erupting with massive, oozing, painful zits.

She catches my eye and gives me the thumbs-up. Marcus Flint—the Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team—catches this and immediately panics. She sticks her tongue out at him, clearly enjoying his discomfort. I smirk and finish the last bite of my toast before rising from the table and walking out to the Postal Tree.

For once I arrive before Allen does. He grins as he approaches. "This above all; to thine own self be true." he recites.

"Better three hours too soon than a minute too late." I reply, making a mental note to dig through one of my books of Shakespeare. I'm running low on quotes, and if Allen has one and I don't one day, I know I'll hear a goad about how Ravenclaws are supposed to be the clever ones. "You ready to head over?"

"Yeah. Sorry I wasn't early this time, got sidetracked by a conversation with the Weasley twins. They gave me something…" He pulls open the large pockets of his robes to show me their contents - his pockets are crammed with pastries that were clearly nicked from the kitchen. "For us, during the match. You brought your binoculars?"

I pat my clutch. "Got it."

He grins. "Great! Let's head over to the stands, get a seat before all the good ones are taken." He offers me his arm with a mocking bow. I roll my eyes and start walking towards the Quidditch field without him. A moment later he catches up and we make the rest of the walk side-by-side.

We are a few of the first people seated. Around the stadium I can see a few people hanging out in the stands, chatting and lying out on the seats, waiting for the rest of the school to arrive. I see a cloud of smoke hovering over one of the stands nearby and, at the base of it, Nina, smoking a cigarette before the game. I point her out to Allen. He shouts out to her, "Hey, Nina! Not poisoning anyone this time?" She flips him off, and once he's sitting again, I smack his arm, scolding him mockingly for being so rude. He holds his hands up and apologizes through his stifled laughter.

About an hour later the stands are full, the teams are entering the field, and the game is about to begin. The stands erupt into cheers as the players kick off from the ground and the Quaffle flies into the air. I always loved watching Quidditch when I was little. My local team never made it to the Quidditch Cup, but that never really bothered me—the flow of the game was simply mesmerizing to me. Almost hypnotic.

"Hey, Elia, what do you think Potter's doing?"

That's Allen's voice. I look around the field and notice suddenly that the Gryffindor seeker is nowhere in sight. I look up into the sky and see him hovering high above the rest of the game, just a speck in the distance. "He's probably just trying to stay out of the way of the Bludgers…" I begin, but then something odd strikes me: Why is he jerking around like that? I turn my binoculars up to him and frown. "What the bloody hell?"

Allen pokes me anxiously. "What? What is it?"

"It's…I don't know what he's doing…he's flying backwards…like zigzagging everywhere…if I didn't know better I'd say he wasn't in control of his broom…"

Allen gasps. "_What?_" He snatches the binoculars. "Oh my god, he's barely hanging on to his broom…this is bad. What the bloody hell is happening? Do you think this is Nina's work?"

I shake my head. "No way. Nina wouldn't do something like this. If she were going to sabotage his broom, she'd cut it up while it was in the shed. She never actually hurts anyone, she isn't like that. This isn't her style—if Potter falls from there, boy who lived or not, he's not gonna survive." A glance over confirms that Nina looks just as freaked out by Potter's loss of control over his broomstick as we are.

Suddenly, Potter goes flying off of his broom. I gasp, along with everyone else in the stands. I brace myself for his impact—but miraculously, it doesn't come. I look up and see him holding onto the broom with one hand. I can practically feel Allen holding his breath. _Damn, this is not good! Hang on, Potter! _I'm thinking as I watch him struggle to keep his grip. _You survived against You-Know-Who…don't die here, dammit! You can do this!_

And then, a miracle happens. He reaches up, grabs the broom with his other hand, and swings himself back up onto his broomstick.

Allen looks as stunned as I feel. "What the hell was all that?" he says when he finally manages to speak again.

"I have no clue, but that boy's just lucky it ended when it did! Otherwise he was a goner for sure!" I look down and realize that my knuckles are white on the edge of my seat. I release my grip slowly and touch Allen's shoulder. "He's alright. He's alright now. You can breathe now."

He bobs his head up and down. "I know, but…what do you suppose happened there?"

I shake my head. "I don't know. Just hope it doesn't happen again, I'll say."

He nods grimly. "Not much else we can do, right?"

The next few minutes of the game pass uneventfully. I watch the game with an unfocused gaze, but I'm unable to reach the meditative state that Quidditch usually brings me to again. Harry Potter has gone back to circling above the field like a hawk, and my gaze keeps drifting upwards from the field. _What happened? _The question keeps drifting back and forth before my eyes. But somehow I get the distinct feeling I'll never have an answer.

Suddenly, Potter goes into a steep dive, a streak of crimson robes speeding towards the Earth. I gasp, worried for a moment he's going to crash straight into the ground. But he pulls up at the last moment. I sigh with relief. Allen, however, is watching intently. "He's seen it! He's seen the Snitch!" he grins. "We're gonna win this!"

And then Potter has pitched forward onto the field and is on his hands and knees. I turn my binoculars down to the field and see that he appears to be choking on something. Allen grabs the binoculars and focuses in. "Does he have it? Does he have the Snitch?"

I shake my head and start to say "No, I think he's just about to be sick" but Allen lets out a whoop and pumps his fist in the air, screaming, "HE'S GOT IT! HE'S GOT THE SNITCH! WE WON!" and I grab the binoculars back from him, looking down and trying to figure out how Potter got his hands on it while about to pitch up his breakfast. Allen stops cheering for long enough to clue me in that the snitch somehow wound up in Potter's mouth. I'm a bit too impressed by Potter's luck to do much cheering. Surviving against you-know-who as a baby, holding onto that bucking broomstick, and catching the Snitch in his mouth? His blood is probably Felix Felicis—no other explanation for that kind of luck. I chuckle at the thought.


	5. Chapter Five

As the first of December dawns, I am pacing the common room while I wait for the rest of the castle to rise. There is a scratching sound at the window, and I glance over to see that there is an owl at the windowsill, trying to get in. With a sigh, I unlatch the window and let the owl in. A close look tells me that he is my father's owl, Merlin. I smile and stroke Merlin's head, saying, "Wait here for just a minute, I'll write back." I take a deep breath and unfold the letter.

_Dear Elia,_

_It seems that quite a bit has happened at Hogwarts, and very quickly. I am shocked to hear there was a troll in the school on Halloween. It is miraculous that nobody was injured. And what you speak of, at the Quidditch match…it is completely impossible that your friend was responsible. For one, I have encountered Miss Javeris, and I can tell from my interaction with her, however brief, that she is not one who would risk another student's life. For another, I doubt that any student would be capable of something like that—taking the control of a broom from afar, when someone is still riding it, that is not a hex that a student would be capable of, that is powerful dark magic._

_On a more cheerful note, I'm glad to hear that you've been keeping busy and keeping yourself out of trouble. You've always been outstanding in potion-making, I never had any doubt that would continue, but from what I hear, your report on the Draught of Inversion, and your recipe for an antidote, went over spectacularly, and Professor Snape is considering extra credit for you. And, though Transfiguration has never been your strength, I see that you're putting extra study and practice in to compensate for that. I am proud that you are doing so._

_Yes, I have begun making arrangements for the Christmas festivities. Miss Tonks will be joining us this year, as her family has made other plans, as well as Mad-Eye Moody and Remus Lupin. I know that Mad-Eye scares you a bit, but try to find humor in him, rather than intimidation. I do, and it makes working with him so much easier to handle. Other than the three of them, we'll have the usual crowd._

_I look forward to seeing you. As for your request for a Nimbus 2000 for Christmas, I'm not sure it's a good idea. As much as I hate to say it, you've never had a touch for flight, and I don't think that a more expensive broom will solve that—in fact, the higher you attempt to fly, the greater I fear the risks will be. But never mind that, I had a better idea for a present anyhow, one much less likely to cause you injury. I hope that you will appreciate it when the time comes around._

_Please write back soon and assure me that, amidst all of these unusual events, you haven't been injured. I know quite well that you haven't, but write anyhow, for my sake—it always brightens my day when I get a letter from you._

_Love,  
Dad_

I smile as I tuck the letter away. I pull out a parchment and a quill and start penning a letter back._  
_

_Dear Dad,_

_Don't worry about the Nimbus 2000, I was mostly joking anyhow—I'm not just bad at flying, I hate it. Sorry if my humor wasn't clear enough._

_Studies have kept me very busy. These N.E.W.T.-level courses are hard! But, if it were all too easy, I'd never learn anything—isn't that what you always tell me, that challenge and adversity brings us knowledge and growth? I still believe it, see if this year kills my faith._

_I'm excited to see Tonks. I haven't heard much from her since she entered the Auror training program. I miss her, after all—she's a good friend. As for Mad-Eye, I'll do my best not to let him scare me, but no promises. I know he's a well-respected and highly-experienced Auror, but he doesn't always make the most pleasant dining companion. Mostly excited to see you, of course._

At that point I stop, thinking about a conversation I had yesterday with Allen. I'd told him that my dad would probably write soon and tell me what our plans for Christmas were. He'd smiled and said that sounded exciting. Then I'd asked him what his plans were.

His answer had caught me off-guard. "Same as always. Stay at Hogwarts."

I frowned at him. "Why?"

"Well, let's put it this way." His eyes had grown somewhat sad as he spoke. "My parents are Muggles and very religious. They're not exactly fond of having someone who was 'touched by the devil,' as they say, in their home during what they see as a religious holiday."

I think this over for a minute. It's odd that I'd never even known Allen stayed at Hogwarts for Christmas, much less that his parents were Muggles who harbored ill feelings towards him being a wizard. He never talked about his family. I never asked. It just seemed to go without saying that it was always about school, or about friends, and not about our families.

But at the same time, he knows all about my family. Why did it never seem odd to me that I knew nothing about his?

I shake this thought off and continue to write.

_This Christmas, I was wondering…could we invite one of my friends to spend the holidays with us as well? His name is Allen Marchena, and he's a Gryffindor from my class. He's muggle-born and his parents don't let him come home over the holidays. If possible, could he stay with us this year?_

_I assure you, none of the goings-on here have hurt me. I'm perfectly healthy and happy as always._

_I love you, Dad, and I'm starting my countdown to the Christmas holidays already._

_Love,  
Elia_

I smile and nod. That'll do, I fold the letter and hand it to Merlin. "Take this back to my dad." I tell him. "If he's tired, just leave it on the table." Merlin nods and picks the letter up in his beak. And then he's off. I latch the window shut again as soon as he flies off.

Outside, the air is cold, and the clouds are heavy. The trees have long since gone bare and the ground is parched from the cold. The sky is holding its breath, ready to startle us with a sudden burst of Winter at any second. I pace the room. Death hasn't paid me a visit in a while, and I'm hoping it will stay that way. His presence smells like Azkaban to me—cold, damp stone that has been hardened by the years of decay, despair, and darkness resting upon it.

I remember in my third year of Hogwarts, one of my Defense Against the Dark Arts classes involved a Boggart. The teacher that year, a retired Auror by the name of Dana Finn, had explained to us that a Boggart took on the form of the worst fear of he who stood before it. The ultimate defense against a Boggart, she explained, was laughter—so to combat a Boggart, we would use the Riddikulus charm, and it would transform our fear into something comical. She then placed each of us before the Boggart in turn. When I opened the trunk that held the Boggart, it burst out at me in the form of Mad-Eye Moody. The Riddikulus charm caused him to jump up on a desk and perform a cheerful song-and-dance number in an old-fashioned showgirl costume, complete with cherry-red lipstick and a sparkling feather boa. After that, for several months, I couldn't even think of Mad-Eye without laughing.

Were I to encounter a Boggart again, I know it would no longer resemble Mad-Eye Moody. It would take the form of my mother, her face hollowed out by her many years in Azkaban.

* * *

In the morning, as I exit the Great Hall after breakfast, Allen catches up to me. He's holding something behind his back and looks very pleased with himself. "Hey, Elia!" His face is flushed and he is breathless.

I smile. "Something wicked this way cometh."

He rolls his eyes, but smiles. "Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble." He recites quickly, and then grabs my arm with one hand. "Now that that's out of the way. I know the holidays aren't coming for a couple of weeks yet, but I wanted to give you your Christmas present now, it just arrived and it's too bloody useful for me to wait on giving it to you." He pulls me down the hall to an empty classroom, keeping the object behind his back thoroughly concealed. When we're in the classroom, he shows me what he's been hiding. It appears to be two oval-shaped mirrors.

"Two-way mirrors." He explains. "I keep one, you take the other. If you look into it and say my name, or if I do the same with mine, the mirrors connect and we can communicate." He smiles. "Please use them while you're at home for the holidays. I'll be lonely otherwise, not many students stay at Hogwarts for the holidays."

I think about my letter to my dad earlier. Should I tell Allen about it? If my dad agrees to invite Allen, then it will be good for me to tell him now, so he doesn't have to fret about being lonely. If he doesn't agree to, then I'll have gotten Allen's hopes up for no reason. I think for a moment before I decide upon something to say.

"Well, let's put it this way." I smile. "If all goes according to plan, I will have an amazing surprise for you for Christmas. If not, I still have an amazing surprise for you for Christmas." And it's true—even if he doesn't get to spend the holidays with us, I've still got a present for him that I know he will love.

He grins and ruffles my hair affectionately. "Look forward to it."

I glare at him. "Don't pet me on the head! I may be a bit shorter than you, but I'm not a little kid—that's something you do for children!"

"I dunno, Elia…" He stands right up next to me and mockingly pretends to measure himself against me. "You seem pretty little to me…"

"Listen here!" I snap, pointing up at him. "I may be short but I will hang you from the ceiling by your ankles in your sleep if you're not careful!"

He laughs and skips out of the way of my foot. "See if you can catch me with those tiny legs, Elia. By my measurements, I'm about 186 centimeters here, next to you at…155? No, that's too much…"

And with that, he turns and bolts.

I whip out my wand. "_Locomotor mortis!_" I shout after him. His legs spring together, and he topples to the floor. He rolls to face me, still laughing. I stand over him. "Where we're standing now, it looks like I'm the tall one." I point my wand between his eyes.

He makes a face at me. "Fine, fine. You win this one. Now, please undo this…whatever it is you've done to my legs?"

I smirk. "I dunno about that, I might enjoy being tall for a while." Then I pause dramatically to enjoy his look of horror for a moment before laughing. "Kidding, kidding. Here you go." I tap his legs with my wand quickly, and his legs relax. He chuckles and stands shakily. I nudge him. "Have you learned a lesson today?"

He nods. "If I'm going to make fun of you being short, perform a shield charm immediately thereafter, _then_ run for it. Otherwise I'll just get hit in the back." Then he grins and hugs me. "If I can't poke fun at your height, what is there for me to joke about?"

"I dunno, you kinda had me with the one about the two goblins and the Muggle getting drunk with a Death Eater at the Leaky Cauldron." Pause. "Or, y'know, maybe you're just not cut out for this humor stuff. If you were to do that onstage you'd scare everyone with your laugh."

He stifles a laugh at this, for which I am grateful. "Well, Elia, I suppose I could also launch into what happened last time you tried to mount a broomstick. That might be amusing."

"Watch your tongue, or I'll mount it over my fireplace." I warn him jokingly. Then, in a more serious tone: "Let's get to class. We can keep taking the piss at each other later on."

He smiles and salutes me. "As you wish. Let me know, you've got the mirror now." And with that, we are off, going our separate ways to our separate classes.

* * *

Shortly before dinner the next day, Merlin passes through the Ravenclaw common room again, bringing another note from my father. This one is short, and his handwriting is sloppier than usual, as if he'd scrawled it in a hurry on his way out the door.

_A relief to hear that you're fine, Elia, although I never doubt it—you are more than capable of handling yourself, but always good to be reassured. I remember meeting Allen some time ago, and yes, he's more than welcome to join us for the holidays, as I recall he was friends with Tonks and Brett as well. We can fix up the guest room for him. And now that I reread the letter where you asked for the Nimbus 2000, I suppose your humor is fairly obvious—I must have been distracted when I read it. A silly mistake on my part._

_Extend our invitation to Allen, please, and warn him about Mad-Eye too. Especially being that he's Muggle-born, Mad-Eye Moody might be a bit of a shock to his system the first time they meet._

_Love,  
Dad_

I smile. Christmas for my dad and I usually involves a dinner with my dad's friends Tony and Samira Lau, as well as whoever else is in the area and wants to drop by. I have been familiar with Brett and his younger sister, Megan, since I was 11 both because that was the year Brett and I started at Hogwarts, and because that was the year that Tony and Samira Lau started working for the Ministry and encountered my dad for the first time. Since then, our families have celebrated Christmas together.

I pull out the two-way mirror Allen gave me._ Time to put this thing to the test._ "Allen?" I say into the mirror. My breath fogs up the glass momentarily. For a moment I see darkness. Then I see the palm of his hand as he lifts the mirror from his pocket, and then his face. "These things seem to work well, don't they?" As he speaks he is smiling, but his eyes and his voice are tired. _What's eating at him?_ I wonder for a moment, but quickly push it from my mind. _Never mind that, he'll perk up when I tell him the good news._

"Meet me at the Postal Tree immediately after you finish eating." I instruct him, trying to keep from sounding bossy but at the same time keep my excitement from seeping into my voice. "I've got something to tell you. It's good, don't worry."

He nods, something in his eyes that isn't usually present—it's unfamiliar, but at the same time, something I know far too well. What is it? "Alright, Elia…see you there." Then he puts the mirror away before I can say anything else.

I put the mirror back in my pocket, unsure of why I feel so uneasy. It isn't until I'm already halfway down to the Great Hall that it hits me. Allen wasn't tired. That look in his eyes, that heaviness on his voice, wasn't tiredness. It was grief.

It's something I know all too well. Whenever my father thinks of my mother, I see his grief. Whenever he speaks of his parents, I hear the grief clinging to his every word. There is grief often, but in my father's case, it is obscured soon after by the wave of strength that their memory brings him. I should have asked Allen what was on his mind, what the source of that pain was. But something tells me that even if I asked, he wouldn't want to answer.

* * *

As I'm eating dinner, I glance across the Great Hall to the Gryffindor table and notice that Allen is nowhere in sight. I frown, trying to think of where he might be. It occurs to me that maybe he's late for dinner. No, that's impossible—Allen is never late for anything.

Then again, I haven't seen Allen today at all, except for that brief glimpse of him in the mirror. Is today just a day for him when nothing happens as normal? Mr. Cheerful is down in the dumps? Mr. Always Early is late?

I shake my head. If that were the case, I'd have to really be worried about him.

He's probably already at the tree waiting for me. Sighing, I drop the grilled chicken leg that I'd been eating and make my way towards the door, pulling my cloak over my shoulders as I go.

Sure enough, he's already there. He's slumped against the tree's trunk, staring out over the flat, steely-gray surface of the lake. His face is dark, his eyes are distant. I'm not at all used to seeing him this way, and it makes me uncomfortable.

He doesn't seem to notice me as I approach and settle myself next to him. But the moment I'm seated, he speaks to me: "You asked me to meet you here? Some good news, I hope?"

"Well…an invitation, actually."

He turns to me, and at the moment he faces me, the darkness has vanished from his energy. In fact, he is smiling brightly, and there is no trace of sadness in it. Did I imagine that look of grief, earlier? His voice, full of Allen's usual cheeriness, seems to suggest I did: "I'm not having lunch tomorrow with you and Nina, I think she's still got a score to settle over that Quidditch match and I'd hate to be on the brunt of some revenge-poison. I'm already a bit sick."

"Is that why you weren't at dinner today?"

"Yeah, I could barely keep my lunch down. Decided to give my stomach a break." He pauses, pushing his bangs out of his face. "I was joking about the lunch-with-Nina thing, by the way. Tell me what, when, and where, and I'll give you an answer."

I grin. "You know every year, my dad and I host a get-together on Christmas. Usually some friends of Dad's from the Ministry. Brett and his family are there with us every year. And Tonks'll be there this year, too." Pause. "If you accept the invitation to spend the Christmas holidays with us, so will you." Then I bite my lip and wait for his response.

My words seem to take a moment to sink in for him. He is still for that moment, staring at me blankly, trying to process what I said. Then a cautious smile spreads across his face. "Surely you can't be serious?"

"I am. So, are you in? Wanna spend Christmas with us?" I grin at him. "And, oh yeah…" I poke the tip of his nose with my finger. "Don't call me 'Shirley.'"

He's silent for another moment. Then he laughs out loud, throwing his arms around me. I'm worried for a moment that he'll feel me jump at the sound of his laugh, but he seems not to notice. "Yes! I'd _love_ to spend Christmas with you and your family!" He is almost shouting with excitement. "Thank you!"

"Alright…" My voice sounds even quieter than usual, as it always seems to sound when lined up next to Allen's. "I'll go write to my dad, tell him that you said yes."

Allen nods and releases me. "Yeah, I remember your dad. From Platform 9 ¾. Seemed like a really nice guy."

"He is." I nod. "Oh, by the way, Brett and Tonks will be there, too. Brett's entire family, actually. I'll warn you about the rest of the guest list later on." Pause. "I'm gonna go send him that owl, okay?"

Allen smiles as I stand. "Alright. And…tell him thank you, okay?"

I smile back. "I will."

* * *

There is snow by the next day. A massive blizzard strikes, and all of Hogwarts is blanketed by the results. Glancing out the window, I feel my stomach drop—I really hope the owl made it to my dad safely, it doesn't look like a good situation out there.

Nina is busy selling target-guided snowballs, which will continue whacking the target again and again until they are either stopped or melted completely. I hear a few underclassmen planning to enchant a few of them to follow teachers around, and I've gotten several of them off of Nina herself by the end of the day.

"Ungrateful gits, biting the hand that feeds them!" She hisses, shaking moisture out of her hair. For the holidays, she has dyed her hair snowy-white, and her lipstick is bright red. She has chosen to adorn her hair with clips resembling miniature bunches of holly with little candles flickering between the leaves. The candles are sputtering under the moisture of the now-melted snowball but, due to the enchantment, staying lit.

"I'd call it more a taste of your own medicine, Nina." I mutter, fighting not to laugh as I spot another enchanted snowball somersaulting through the air towards her.

"What are you talking about? I don't set these snowballs on anyone! I give people the snowballs, but what they do with those, oh, that's up to them! Don't blame me for what they do with them!"

I roll my eyes. "Oh, Nina. You're a special one."

Later on, I spot Brett in the library. I creep over and sit down next to him at the table. He raises his eyes and smiles in greeting. I pull out a bottle of ink and a quill, and scrawl on a blank sheet of paper next to him:_  
_

_Allen's going to be spending the holidays with my dad and me this year. You know what that means, don't you?_

Brett lights up. He scrawls back quickly:

_AWESOME!_

I nod and grin. "Thought I'd let you know." I whisper as I stand again. _A History of the Dark Arts in Europe _is sitting in my bag, and the time has come to return it. I contemplate checking out another book before the holidays but decide against it. I return the book quickly and I'm just getting ready to leave when I spot someone—something—familiar, sitting atop one of the bookshelves.

Death again, observing me with an odd mix of curiosity, fascination, and sadistic joy. I lower my head and leave as quickly as possible. The longer this goes on, the more I realize: I don't want answers from Death. I want him to leave me alone.

* * *

It is the first day of vacation, and all of the students going home for the break have already boarded the Hogwarts Express back to London. I'm sharing a compartment with Allen and Nina—Brett elected to share a compartment with his little sister Megan, who is currently in her second year as a Hufflepuff. Nina waits until the train has left the station before lighting up. Allen coughs and glares at Nina. "Come on, Nina." he groans, "You can't do that somewhere else?"

She blows a puff of smoke into his face. "I can open the window if it pleases you."

He rolls his eyes. "Do it in another compartment. I don't wanna deal with the wind."

"No, you just wanna be alone with Elia." She smirks, taking another drag. "Can't say I blame you, I'd do the same if I stood a chance. Very well…" She lets out just one last cloud of silvery smoke before stamping out the cigarette on the sole of her shoe and rising. "I'll get out of your way."

"You know it's not like that, Nina." I sigh.

"Yeah, but if I poked fun at you in a way that had some sort of truth to it, you'd be mad at me, Elia. And we all know how that goes." Nina blows a kiss to us before leaving, off in search of an empty compartment.

I turn to Allen. "Think she'll find an empty compartment?"

"No, but she could make one pretty easily." Allen waves his hand, trying to clear the residual smoke from the air. "Just one off-hand comment about the stomach flu, and everyone will move to the opposite end of the train to get away from her."

I smirk. "You've got that right."

We ride in relative silence for a couple of minutes before he turns to me and speaks again. "Hey, Elia…do you think Nina might, you know…"

"Might what? Might've left some sort of poison in the air for us?"

"No, not that. Do you think she might…fancy you? I mean, just some of the stuff she says…makes me wonder, I guess."

I think for a moment before responding. "I wouldn't be surprised, really. She's said stuff before that makes me wonder too. But I don't really worry about it. She's not the type who would pursue an attraction, at least as anything more than a quick fling. Either way I'm not…you know, I mean, I'm not looking for romance or sex or anything at all, and even if I were, I don't…" I wrinkle my nose. "I _really_ don't look at girls like…that."

Allen scoffs. "Yeah, you're right. Even if she does fancy you, she wouldn't try to start anything with you…a relationship of any sort would be too much 'bonding stuff' for her. She'd be happier daydreaming than actually dating someone."

I smirk. "You don't say." And then, changing the subject, "I think I should warn you about something, too."

"What is it?"

"Brett's family and Tonks aren't the only ones who are gonna be there with us. Some of my dad's friends from the Ministry. I felt I should warn you about a couple of them in particular…one's a guy named Mad-Eye Moody, an Auror, as skilled as they come in that breed but a bit scary…"

"'Mad-Eye'? Is that…_really _his name?" Allen looks unsure if he should laugh or recoil in horror.

"Well, his real name is Alastor, Mad-Eye is a nickname that he earned with good reason. He's a bit scary-looking, and his disposition isn't much better. When we worked with the Boggart in third year, he was actually my Boggart."

Allen grimaces. "I think I can see where this is going." He sighs. "How did you conquer that Boggart?"

"Well, let's just say he jumped up on the desks wearing some showgirl getup and started singing and dancing…like high kicks and everything…it's hard to be to afraid of him after that." I snort, remembering the show he put on for the whole class.

Allen smiles nervously. "We'll see if I can remember that when I meet this guy."

"Well, whatever happens will happen, right?" I pull a few candies out of my pocket. "Fizzing Whizbee? We've gotta kill time here somehow."

He takes it with a sly smile. "Did Nina tell you to give this to me?" Then he laughs. "Nah, just kidding. I'll take one, thank you."

* * *

About an hour after the train leaves the station, Allen has dozed off, and I'm staring out the window at the countryside, lost in thought. Two days from now is my birthday. I'll be 17 years old, officially of adult age in the Wizarding world. I'll be able to use magic to help my dad prepare for the Christmas festivities. I'll be able to use magic outside of school in general. That should be…interesting? A change? Nice? I'm not fully sure what to call it.

Allen twitches in his sleep and mutters something about wooden beams. I chuckle and roll my eyes. It's funny to imagine what he might be dreaming about.

The snow is heavy outside of the window. As we get closer to London, I know it'll be lighter. There will be less snow, more sleet and rain and mist. London grows misty in the winter.

At home in Chassidel, there is always snow in the winter. I remember when I was little, digging tunnels in the snow and making forts to throw snowballs at my father. I remember him laughing and brushing the snow off of his shoulder, walking over and picking me up and carrying me inside. I remember him telling me to warm up before I turned into a snowman. When I was little he told me that kids who stayed out in the snow for too long after their parents told them to come inside turned into snowmen. When I was little I believed him.

I have enough Evigilo Mors to last me throughout the break stored in my bag. I'm not worried about that. What I am worried about is my dad noticing that something is odd. Trying to keep him from becoming suspicious is futile—he's extremely observant and he knows me better than anyone. I'm better off presenting some other excuse when his suspicions are roused. There's no use in trying to pretend nothing's changed. But I can't let him find out the truth.

* * *

The sky has faded into darkness by the time the train pulls into King's Cross station. It's almost winter and the sky darkens progressively quicker with each passing day. Allen and I change from our school clothes to our normal clothes—his, an oversized plaid flannel open over a T-shirt with a picture of an eagle and a pair of worn jeans, and mine, a "Lethifold Valentine" T-shirt that I cut the sleeves off of over a pair of dark skinny jeans. Allen grins when he sees that I'm hesitating to put a sweater on. "Unless you'd brave the winter cold without it, I'd suggest putting that on." He chuckles, "What'd the sweater ever do to you?"

I shake my head at him. "I like my arms. But I can't show them off at school because of the uniform. I can only wear stuff that shows my arms outside of school. And then, today…showing off my arms outside is not an option."

He smirks. "It means that much for you to show off?"

I flex my arms jokingly. "Look at these! You'd show them off, too, if you had them!"

He laughs, and I disguise my startled jump by flopping back into my seat. It's true, I take great pride in my toned arms and shoulders, and during the warmer months I wear sleeveless shirts, tank tops, and strapless tops as much as possible to show them off. Someday I'm hoping to get a tattoo on my upper arm so that I'll have an excuse to not wear sleeves—wanting to show people the tattoo.

For now, though, I know that Allen is right. It's too cold to go out without a sweater. And back at home, it'll be even colder. I glance out the window and see that we're arriving at Platform 9 ¾.

"We're here." I turn to Allen. "C'mon, let's go find my dad."


End file.
